


Growing Pains

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Sexual Situations, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surrounded by lovable idiots, not a clue what to do with his life and a persistent crush on his homeroom teacher – Riccardo’s senior year is definitely not looking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The ages and timelines differ from reality, and I know next to nothing about the Italian school system so the description is probably as inaccurate as it could get, but please bear with me?

“The champion arrives!” Claudio bellows from the top of his lungs as soon as he sees Riccardo approaching them, high-fiving Antonio as Riccardo almost rides over a poor granny with his bike.  
  
“Could you guys please keep it down?” he pleads once he finally reaches his friends, still flustered from the lecture he received for his reckless driving. Apparently the pedestrians felt much safer on the roads back in Mussolini’s time.  
  
“Chill out man, we’re just glad to see you after you disappeared on us so suddenly the other night,” Antonio laughs, pointedly ignoring the glare Riccardo is giving them.   
  
Riccardo makes a mental note to practice his menacing looks in front of a mirror more often. (Giampaolo once told him his glares made him look like a kicked puppy – an effect Riccardo is definitely not going for, thank you very much.)  
  
“But seriously, how was she? You went to her place, right?” Claudio prompts, his grin stretching from ear to ear, well aware how uncomfortable he is making Riccardo feel.  
  
“Cristina was great, really knew what she wanted,” he replies without meeting his friends’ eyes, busying himself with the lock of his bike instead.  
  
“God, I wish I could get a hot older gal like that,” Claudio notes dreamily, eyeing Riccardo with unashamed jealousy and new-found respect. Sometimes he is just too easy to please.  
  
Riccardo keeps fumbling with his keys, the guilt of lying to his friends clenching his insides.  
  
Actually, he merely escorted Cristina home from the bar before he chickened out and just bid her good night without so much as a kiss on the cheek. Definitely not the kind of story he can share with the guys.  
  
“You finished the assignment for Pirlo?” he asks Antonio in attempt to steer the discussion into less dangerous waters, “I stayed up half the night writing it.”  
  
“Nah, I just copied some stuff from Wikipedia to make it look like it’s half-done,” Antonio shrugs off the question, “Now, you were telling us about this _Cristina_?”  
  
“I never kiss and tell,” Riccardo deadpans, desperately trying to think up a subject that could actually hold his friends’ attention for more than five seconds – something other than women, that is. He comes up with nothing so he sticks with the History assignment instead.  
  
“You used Wikipedia? The essay’s due  _today_  and Pirlo said it’s gonna determine half of the grade! You really think he won’t check them for plagiarism?”  
  
Antonio rolls his eyes, obviously unconcerned. Riccardo wonders not for the first time how Antonio was ever chosen as the class representative when his track record with the teachers in anything but successful.  
  
“Where’s Aquilani? Doesn’t he usually come to school with you?” he turns his attention to Claudio, who is amusing himself with the Juventus keychain hanging from his back, not bothering to join the conversation about his least favourite teacher – who consequently also happens to be their homeroom teacher.  
  
“Dunno, probably somewhere with his  _girlfriend_ , the lucky bastard,” Claudio offers with a shrug, “I still don’t get it why it’s always you two who get all the hotties – I mean, I’m much more handsome than either of you! No offense.”  
  
Riccardo punches him on the shoulder while Antonio butts in to make sure Claudio is not including him in his sorry club of bachelors, because he can  _so have any girl he likes, damn it_.  
  
This fascinating discussion is interrupted by Giampaolo, who appears out of nowhere and grabs Riccardo’s shoulders from behind, startling him nearly to death.  
  
“We talking about Claudio’s lack of girlfriend again?” he asks cheekily, resting his chin on Riccardo’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around his upper body.  
  
“Yup, and Noce’s too, though he’s still in denial,” Riccardo informs him with a smile, not at all bothered by the breach of his personal space – he has grown accustomed to Giampaolo’s touchiness by now, having known him practically all his life.  
  
“Hey! Just because you got laid doesn’t mean you’re suddenly better than us!” Antonio scoffs in faked anger, laughter apparent in his voice.  
  
“Monty got laid? Now  _this_  is news to me as well!” Giampaolo is suddenly pinching Riccardo’s cheek painfully, and Riccardo knows that distracting his childhood friend is going to be a whole lot harder than it was with Claudio and Antonio.  
  
The bell saves him at the nick of time. Riccardo escapes from Giampaolo’s clutches with practiced ease and heads for the homeroom, leaving his friends trailing after him.  
  
He knows full well that the interrogation is far from over, but at least he will have some time to prepare a plausible story for Giampaolo in the meantime.  
  
  
  
Professor Pirlo is a stern man in his early 30s. (Just a guess, obviously: no one has ever dared to ask his exact age.) He began teaching History at their high school around the end of their second year and replaced their old homeroom teacher at the beginning of the third.   
  
By that time he had already gained the reputation as the strictest teacher in the whole school and as it turned out, neither Pirlo nor the students were particularly happy about the new homeroom arrangement.  
  
Claudio in particular has been in an on-going hate-hate relationship with Pirlo ever since the first time he attended the man’s History class – it is no wonder he dropped the subject as soon as he could, declaring he got more than enough of Pirlo’s shit during homeroom.  
  
Riccardo does not necessarily share the sentiments of his friend (or the majority of the student population). Pirlo can be intimidating and even mean at times, yes, but so far Riccardo has managed to stay in his good books – which might be because he actually likes History and rarely causes trouble at any other classes either.  
  
“I’m going to distribute these career planning forms to you now. Please fill them by the end of the week so the class representative can collect them and bring them to me,” Pirlo tells them in a tone that suggests he could not care less about their plans for the future, “And in  _time_  for once, Mr. Nocerino, I will not tolerate any of your lame excuses this time around.”  
  
Antonio gives him a mock salute with his middle finger, already stuffing his own form into his back pocket not caring about the crumbling. A few students are biting their fists to hide their laughter, but Pirlo pays them no attention for now – probably making a mental note to make them suffer later on.  
  
Riccardo folds the paper carefully and tucks it safely between the pages of his Math book. He has no idea what he is going to write in it: the graduation seems still so far away, despite it being their final year already.  
  
Pirlo has grown out his ever-present stubble: the beard makes him look unfamiliar, older, but also strangely handsome at the same time.  
  
Riccardo has never heard any of the girls talking about Pirlo’s looks, not in the way the keep on gushing about Professor De Rossi or Coach Buffon. Riccardo thinks they might be blind: Pirlo is definitely on the same level as his two colleagues, even surpasses them by a mile at the rare occasions when he actually bothers to smile.  
  
(Of course, it might be just a personality thing: Buffon and De Rossi also rate as the nicest teachers in the school among the students.)  
  
“Oy, Monty, you’re spacing out again,” Giampaolo hisses at him, poking him between the ribs and almost making him jump off his chair in surprise.  
  
Riccardo tries to collect himself before anyone else notices his moment of distraction. Pirlo is still talking about the obligatory career counselling, his bored demeanour speaking loud and clear of his personal opinion on the subject.  
  
The homeroom ends with a sound of chairs scraping against the floor as the students head off to the first classes of the day – De Rossi’s Social Studies in Riccardo’s case.  
  
“Hell, I think he’s becoming more and more horrible with each passing day,” Claudio declares as soon as they are out of ear-shot.  
  
“He’s just impatient to get rid of  _you_. Can’t blame him for that,” Giampaolo sniggers before turning his attention back to Riccardo, “So, who’s this girl you were daydreaming about in there, huh?”  
  
  
  
“She was so freaking hot! Wasn’t she, like, a model or something?” Claudio picks up the subject again during PE as he is sitting astride on Riccardo’s feet, counting his sit-ups. (Or at least pretending to.)  
  
“Hell if I know, we didn’t exactly talk about our lives,” Riccardo retorts once he is done with the first set. He takes a moment just to lie on the floor, catching his breath and rubbing his straining abs.  
  
“I bet she is – I think I’ve seen her in Playboy,” Claudio continues, a dreamy look crossing his face.  
  
“I sure hope you’re not talking about my wife, Mr. Marchisio.”  
  
Coach Buffon appears so suddenly they both practically jump out of their skin. He has a habit of doing that: materialize out of thin air at the most inopportune moments, be it during class, on the break or at the football practice.  
  
“No Sir, I was talking about Monty’s new girlfriend,” – Riccardo shakes his head frantically at the teacher – “Though now that you mention it, your wife  _is_ massively hot, coach.”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Marchisio, I’ll be sure to deliver the compliment,” Buffon beams at them, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. He is like that: takes the students’ comments at stride, jokes around with them instead of berating them.  
  
It is a well-known fact that the school board would jump at any opportunity to sack Coach Buffon, less than impressed with his track record of cursing at work, ridiculing other teachers (not to mention the board) and siding with the wrong-doers on a regular basis – all qualities that make the students respect him even more.  
  
The only thing that keeps the students from openly worshipping their PE teacher is the fact that he sticks around Professor Pirlo more often than not – a friendship none of the students has been able to understand to date.  
  
“Another set now, if you please, Mr. Montolivo,” Buffon instructs and pats his stomach in an encouraging gesture, “Gotta work on that figure if you intend to keep your ‘Playboy-class’ girlfriend satisfied.”  
  
Claudio bursts out laughing as soon as Buffon turns his attention to the students next to them while Riccardo begins his next set of sit-ups – uncounted once again, thanks to Claudio’s nonexistent attention span.  
  
This time, the flush on his face has absolutely nothing to do with the exercise.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, what’re you gonna do after graduation?” Giampaolo asks on the way home from practice. (Riccardo is walking his bike at his side in order to save further grannies from heart attacks.)   
  
Apparently he has exhausted the subject of Riccardo’s ‘girlfriend’ already – probably called his bluff right away but decided not to comment on it – so they are focusing on the career planning forms now.  
  
“I dunno. University, I guess?” Riccardo shrugs nonchalantly, “Would be awesome to move to Milan, but I’ve got no idea where to apply.”  
  
“Must be hard, being so good at everything: your choices are practically endless,” Giampaolo sniggers, poking Riccardo between his ribs.  
  
“It’s not like that!” Riccardo protests with a laugh, trying to move out of Giampaolo’s reach, “What about you then, do you know where you’re going?”  
  
“I’ll figure something out. Maybe Law School? I’d look stunning in a suit, don’t you think?”  
  
Although the reply is given jokingly, Riccardo can recognize a shimmer of truth hidden in the words. Giampaolo has always been the more decisive of the two of them, the one with clear objectives and plans to obtain them. (It was him who chose their first-choice high school as well, Riccardo more than content with going wherever his friend wanted to go.)  
  
“Be careful, with comments like that you’re beginning to sound suspiciously like Claudio,” he tells Giampaolo in all seriousness, successfully hiding his own uncertainties behind the joke.  
  
“At least my goal isn’t to  _mark my name in history_. Seriously, what the hell was he going on about?” Giampaolo retorts easily, chuckling at the memory of their earlier conversation. Riccardo cannot help but join the laughter.  
  
 _“I’m so going to get my name in the History books, and then Pirlo will never get rid of me! Serves him right, the damn bastard.”_  
  
No way anyone could be as bad as Claudio, his goals always a step or two above everyone else’s.  
  
Yet, despite his impossible aspirations, even Claudio has a plan for his future. Riccardo, on the other hand, cannot think of  _one_  thing he would really like to do after graduation.  
  
There are moments when he thinks he has figured everything out, thought of something that might work – History, Journalism, Physiotherapy, German – but he always ends up back in square one, because nothing just feels quite right.  
  
“Cheer up, I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” Giampaolo offers with a friendly pat on his shoulder, “You’re the smart one among us, after all.”  
  
  
  
“Hey Monty, could you drop these off to Pirlo? I’m in a hurry.”  
  
Riccardo has no time to protest before the pile of papers is pushed into his lap and Antonio disappears just as quickly as he appeared only moments earlier. Probably off to some arcade with Claudio, if Riccardo knows anything about them.  
  
“You’re much too nice for your own good, you know?” Giampaolo comments as Riccardo collects the forms into his hands and gets up, “Just let him face Pirlo’s wrath for once, would serve him right.”  
  
Riccardo smiles at the suggestion but makes his way out of the library and towards the teachers’ lounge anyways. Angering Pirlo would be extremely counterproductive – it would just lead to even more uncomfortable homeroom sessions and excruciating History classes – not to mention Antonio would blame Riccardo for getting him into trouble.  
  
The teachers’ lounge is anything but a comfortable place to be in: it is a wide room with rows of desks without anything to separate them from each other, no privacy whatsoever. Riccardo understands full well why most of the teachers prefer to spend their breaks in classrooms or loitering around the hallways.  
  
He can feel eyes on his as he walks through the room towards Pirlo’s desk.  
  
Buffon and De Rossi are both there, leaning on the impeccably clean tabletop, talking with Pirlo about something in low voices. Riccardo can hear Pirlo’s quiet chuckle among the conversation, and for some reason it makes his heart skip a beat.  
  
He is just nervous to interrupt them, he tells himself – just anxious of Pirlo’s reaction when he figures out Antonio has once again skipped his duties as the class representative.  
  
Coach Buffon is the first one to notice Riccardo standing there, wondering whether it is okay to interrupt the conversation. He greets Riccardo with a wide smile, beckoning him to come closer.  
  
“I believe Mr. Montolivo has something to say to you, Andrea.”  
  
It takes Riccardo a moment to realize he is addressing Pirlo – of course, why would they not be in first name basis – and then the man in question turns to face him, his eyebrows slightly raised in question, but his expression not entirely unwelcoming.  
  
“Thank you,  _Coach Buffon_ , Professor De Rossi, that would be all for now,” he tells his colleagues in an overly formal tone that Riccardo supposes is teacher slang for  _fuck off_.  
  
The two teachers exchange an amused look before they head off, passing Riccardo from both sides. De Rossi claps his shoulder comfortingly while Buffon tells him “Good luck” in a solemn voice, his eyes twinkling with laughter.  
  
Pirlo glares after them until they are back at their own desks, and then he finally turns his attention back to Riccardo.  
  
“Sorry about that. Now, what business could you possibly have with me on a fine Friday afternoon like this?”  
  
Pirlo’s unwavering gaze is locked with Riccardo’s as he speaks – a habit of his that never fails to make the students uncomfortable. Riccardo is no exception.  
  
“I--I brought the forms. For homeroom. Noce told--I mean, Nocerino had some urgent business he had to attend to. So, here,” the worlds stumble out of his mouth in a hurry as he hands the papers to Pirlo, desperate to get this over with as soon as possible.   
  
How can anyone be so intimidating even without saying a word?  
  
“I’m sure he did...” Pirlo mutters – half in response, half to himself – but accepts the papers from Riccardo nonetheless. He leafs through the pile quickly, checking for missing or incomplete forms.  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Montolivo – it’s good Nocerino has at least one responsible friend,” he is eyeing Riccardo again as he speaks, “To be honest, I’m baffled no one thought of choosing you as the class rep instead. Would make things a lot easier.”  
  
It is a question Riccardo himself has pondered on several occasions, as well – he does more than half of Antonio’s chores for him anyways, so cutting the middle man would probably be the sensible solution for everyone concerned.  
  
“I’m too quiet, Noce’s a much more prominent figure in the class,” Riccardo notes with a wry smile, momentarily forgetting who it is he is talking to.   
  
To Riccardo’s surprise, Pirlo actually returns his smile, “Yeah, that’s high school, alright...”  
  
He looks through the forms again and picks up one that looks suspiciously like Riccardo’s.  
  
“Accounting, huh? The same as Nocerino, no?”  
  
Riccardo blushes: he had thought he would survive at least over the weekend – maybe even until the actual career counselling – before anyone would question him about the preferred schools he had listed on the form.  
  
“Couldn’t think of anything else,” he admits, trying to keep up his nonchalant demeanour despite his frantically beating heart, “At least there’ll be plenty of jobs to choose from, right?”  
  
Pirlo sighs and drops the form on top of the pile before answering: “It’s your decision; I’m not going to interfere with it if it’s what you really want to do. But you shouldn’t let anyone else to affect your choices, either.”  
  
Riccardo nods hesitantly, too relieved to have got off so easily to even speak. He is about to bid Pirlo a good weekend and slip out of the room when his teacher’s voice halts him.  
  
“I read your essay – it was really good, well thought-out,” – Riccardo’s blush deepens, because it is not every day that Professor Pirlo actually compliments his students – “Think about your options again, will you? Would be a pity if you ended up wasting your talents among all those numbers.”  
  
“I will, thank you, Sir,” Riccardo replies belatedly after losing himself in Pirlo’s eyes for a while – he thinks he might have seen something like genuine _caring_  in those brown pools, but he dismisses the thought quickly: Pirlo is just doing his job, nothing personal about that.  
  
“Now, off you go. I’m sure your friends are out wrecking havoc as we speak,” Pirlo interrupts Riccardo’s internal battle, a crooked smile on his face that lights up his eyes as well.  
  
As he walks away, Riccardo berates himself for acting like a lovesick little girl; his heart is beating so fast he feels like it could just burst out of his chest at any moment.  
  
  
  
“My dad got us some tickets for Sunday’s Juve–Milan match. Wanna come?” Claudio asks Riccardo and Giampaolo once they have located him and Alberto at the mall.   
  
Antonio is not with them, which lessens Riccardo’s earlier annoyance a little bit. The part that was not wiped away by his meeting with Pirlo, that is.  
  
“Oooy, Earth to Monty! Juve–Milan? Thought you’d be the one to jump all over the offer,” Claudio is waving his hand in front of Riccardo’s face so frantically he almost hits him in the nose.  
  
(Would not be the first time: last time he did it, Claudio claimed he could not help it because Riccardo had a big nose that was always on the way. Riccardo gave him the finger and a glare in return, his other hand busy trying to stop the nosebleed caused by the impact.)  
  
“I dunno. You’re just gonna piss off some Milan ultras again, and I’ll be viewed as guilty by association,” he answers, pretending to take his time considering the offer.  
  
There is really nothing to consider: the chances to see Milan playing in Turin are few and far in between, so you cannot just turn down free tickets for a game like this. It is going to be worth it, even if he is forced to stand the company of a die-hard Juventus fan with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.  
  
“Aw, c’mon, it wasn’t  _that_  bad,” Claudio brushes off the comment with a laugh, “Besides, it was actually their fault, I didn’t do anything!”  
  
Riccardo cannot believe he actually used to have a crush on this guy: for their whole freshman year, too, right from the time they were put in the same class and ended up sitting next to each other.  
  
Back then he could just ignore Claudio’s annoying tendencies like his enormous ego and big mouth – he even used to find them charming – but fortunately the disillusionment came along as soon as his senseless infatuation started to subside. Claudio is a great friend, but definitely not boyfriend material (even if he were into guys).  
  
Professor Pirlo, on the other hand...  
  
“Monty! You’re doing it again!” Claudio hits his arm to grab his attention again, “What the hell did that old fart do to you? You’re even more out of it than usually.”  
  
“It’s nothing, just some stuff about my first-choice universities,” Riccardo explains quickly, the traitorous blush once again threatening to rise on his cheeks, “And he’s not  _that_  old.”  
  
“Whatever,” Claudio’s tone reveals that their homeroom teacher is the last thing he wants to talk about right now, “So, you coming to the game or what?”  
  
  
  
The stadium is brimming with people, most of them wearing Juventus colours of black and white.  
  
Riccardo feels completely out of place in his beloved Maldini jersey.  
  
Claudio and Antonio are clad in their  _bianconeri_  jerseys, while Giampaolo and Alberto prefer to stay incognito – traitors, Riccardo thinks, knowing full well they both prefer Milan over Juve any day of the week.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Milan is leading at halftime. Riccardo volunteers to go fetch drinks for everyone, glad for the excuse to get away from the seething Juventus supporters all around him.  
  
He skips to the away team’s stands to buy the drinks, enjoying the feeling of an impending victory to the fullest.  
  
A tiny boy in Milan jersey almost runs into him as he is making his way back to his friends, his bag full of bottles – non-alcoholic, because a drunken Claudio would most likely lead to a beat-up Claudio, and last time was quite enough for Riccardo, thank you very much.  
  
“Whoa, look where you’re going, kiddo,” he says as he reaches out to steady the boy’s balance, “You’re not alone, are you? Where’re your parents?”  
  
“Dunno,” he answers, a frown forming on his face, his eyes meeting Riccardo’s in a straightforward way that reminds him of--  
  
“Niccolò! I told you not to get out of my sight!”  
  
Pirlo is approaching them through the throngs of people, and Riccardo’s suspicion is confirmed when the boy (Niccolò) sprints to him with a delighted yell of “Daddy!”  
  
“Don’t disappear on me like that, you hear me? What’d your mother say?” Pirlo berates his son gently as he lifts him into his arms. It is only then that he notices Riccardo, who is still frozen in place, staring at him like he has seen a ghost.  
  
“Montolivo?”  
  
“Professor Pirlo, what--?” he does not finish the sentence, because every question he comes up with feels either stupid or pointless.  
  
“Drop the title, we’re not at school now. Just say Andrea.”  
  
Riccardo gapes at him, because he could not have heard correctly: no way in hell is Professor Pirlo offering him first name basis!  
  
“Sure--I mean--I-- _what_?” Riccardo wishes he could just run away right at that moment, so embarrassed with his inability to form complete sentences.  
  
Pirlo smiles, that same crooked smile that has been haunting Riccardo since Friday, “I’m telling you to call me Andrea when we’re not at school. Is that OK with you, Riccardo?”  
  
Riccardo nods slowly, too astonished to trust his voice just yet. The sound of his name from Pirlo’s – Andrea’s – lips makes his heart beat just that much faster, as if there is suddenly some magic hidden in those three syllables.  
  
“You like Milan, too?” he finally manages to ask, nodding towards Niccolò’s jersey (Inzaghi). Andrea is not wearing a jersey of his own, but it is pretty much a rule that the children support the same team as their parents. At least that is how it was when Riccardo was a kid.  
  
“Yeah. We used to live in Milan before I got a job here, so it’s only natural,” Andrea replies, adjusting his hold on Niccolò who is rapidly growing impatient with the conversation.  
  
“Wow, I never knew...” Riccardo mumbles softly, hoping he could think up something more interesting to say to keep the moment alive for a while longer.  
  
“No one has bothered to ask,” Andrea shrugs, obviously not at all bothered by the fact that his students know next to nothing about his life. Niccolò is now twisting in his arms – he puts the boy down, keeping a hold of his shirt to keep him from running away again.  
  
“You like Pippo, huh? He your favourite?” Riccardo crouches down to Niccolò’s height, trying to pull him into the conversation.  
  
“He’s the best!” Niccolò’s eyes are suddenly shining with excitement – Riccardo can relate, having been raised in a household full of  _Milanisti_.  
  
“He totally is, isn’t he?” he laughs, glancing up at Andrea’s amused eyes before continuing, “You play yourself? Wanna be like Superpippo when you grow up?”  
  
Niccolò is nodding furiously, his earlier boredom long gone.  
  
“Well, keep it up, superstar,” Riccardo tells him with a two-finger salute before ruffling his hair as he gets up, “I’ll be sure to get your jersey once you’re a pro.”  
  
There is just slightly veiled curiousness in Andrea’s eyes when Riccardo meets his eyes again, “You’re good at that. You like kids?”  
  
“I guess. I’ve worked at football summer camps for a couple of years now; it’s kinda amazing to see how excited the kids are over it,” Riccardo admits, not quite sure why he is telling this to Andrea. Must be the kid lowering his defences.  
  
“I better get going,” he says quickly before Andrea can say anything about this revelation, “Before Claudio gets himself in trouble with Milan fans.”  
  
Andrea’s soft chuckle keeps echoing in his ears as he makes his way back to his friends.  
  
“Took you long enough,” Claudio huffs, snatching a bottle before Riccardo can say anything. It seems he has not calmed down in the least during Riccardo’s absence. Alberto is keeping a hold of his shoulder, like making sure he does not escape and do something stupid.  
  
Riccardo is reminded of Andrea’s hand on his son’s jersey, and an involuntary giggle escapes his lips. He tries to hide it with a cough.  
  
“Sorry, I ran into Pirlo and his kid on the way here. Did you guys know he used to live in Milan?”  
  
From his friends’ reactions (“He follows football?”; “He has a  _kid_? God, I wouldn’t hope that destiny for any child in the world!”; “Wait, you actually talked to him? You crazy?!”) Riccardo is assured that he is not the only clueless one in their class.  
  
It consoles him, just a little bit.  
  
  
  
At school Andrea – Professor Pirlo while at work, Riccardo reminds himself – acts no differently: strict, demanding and decidedly unlikeable, not to mention unbothered as ever.  
  
And yet, Riccardo cannot help but follow his every movement with his eyes during class. The raspy voice sinks somewhere deep into his subconscious, where it keeps repeating over and over again, but not a word actually makes sense to him.  
  
He misses about half a lesson daydreaming and doodling on his notebook before Giampaolo pulls him back to reality as he steals the notebook right from under his pencil.  
  
“Gosh, what’re you, a girl?” he exclaims, pointing at the tiny hearts decorating the margins of the page. Riccardo was not even aware what it was he had been drawing in there.  
  
“Give it back!” he hisses angrily, trying in vain to obtain his notebook from Giampaolo’s hands before his friend notices the small  _A_ s dribbled among the hearts.  
  
“Wow, you really got it bad, huh? Who is she? Someone I know?” Giampaolo sniggers, not even bothering to lower his voice.  
  
Other students are starting to look at their direction, whispering to each other behind their hands, and Riccardo knows he must be red as a beet by now.  
  
“It’s  _no one_. Now, give it back!” He is almost desperate by now, well past caring even if he acts more like a 13-year-old girl than the almost 19-year-old boy he actually is.  
  
“Could you two keep it down?” Andrea’s cold voice cuts through their scuffle, “As intriguing as Mr. Montolivo’s love life surely is, I doubt it has a chance to go down in history anytime soon. Concentrate on  _real_  history until the break, OK? Then you’re free to go on with your girl talk.”  
  
His eyes meet Riccardo’s, not one emotion apparent in them.  
  
“Now, as I was saying, there were some obvious differences that separated the system of Mussolini’s Italy from the Nazi Germany.”  
  
Riccardo drowns out the words again, pointedly stuffing the notebook into his bag as soon as Giampaolo hands it back to him.  
  
Pirlo’s comment was not mean, exactly, at least not compared to the stuff he has told Claudio and Antonio before. Actually it was closer to the jokes Coach Buffon keeps telling them, except in Pirlo’s case the sense of good-natured teasing is nowhere to be found.  
  
Riccardo knows he should not take the comment personally, but knowing and doing are two completely separate things. It is impossible not to feel hurt when all the attention is suddenly drawn to  _him_  even though it was Giampaolo who caused the ruckus in the first place!  
  
What hurts even more, though, is the reminder that a couple of civil conversations do not mean that Professor Pirlo had suddenly started liking him. He is just the slightly more responsible student surrounded by incurable troublemakers, which is probably why the teachers take a pity on him every now and then.  
  
He is still just a student, nothing more.  
  
Riccardo wishes he could just sink through the floor and disappear right then and there.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr. Montolivo, could you please stay behind after the class? I need to have a word with you,” Pirlo’s voice startles him out of his thoughts, but he manages to mumble an affirmative answer despite his embarrassment.

It has been a few weeks since the notebook episode, and in that time Riccardo has become quite good at faking alertness during class. 

Unfortunately faking finished homework and successful exams is not nearly as easy, which is why Riccardo can pretty much guess what this conversation is going to be about.

First it had been just History classes: Professor Pirlo’s immediate presence making it impossible for Riccardo to concentrate. That he could still handle – he just had to sacrifice some of his free time to revise the things he had missed during class.

However, soon enough the teacher started occupying his thoughts even when he was not there – at school, at home, even at football practice – and the more Riccardo tried to ignore the thoughts, the more prominent they grew.

“Several of your teachers have expressed their worry about the sudden drop in your grades,” Pirlo informs Riccardo in his blunt way once the other students have dribbled out of the class, “Even Coach Buffon told me you’ve been slacking off at practice lately, and that really says something.”

Riccardo cannot think up any plausible excuses, and he sure as hell is not going to tell the truth, so he just casts his eyes towards the floor, keeping silent.

“Is there something wrong, Montolivo? I don’t know if talking to an old man like me is going to help, but it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

Pirlo’s tone is surprisingly gentle, the usual bite absent from his words. Maybe it is a technique they teach at the university, planned specifically for hopeless basket cases like Riccardo.

“You’re not old...” Riccardo whispers, his eyes still downcast, not quite sure why he said it even as the words leave his mouth.

“Look at me, Riccardo,” Pirlo says more sharply, and Riccardo complies, blue eyes meeting the brown at last, “Now, what’s this about? Is it some girl? Something going on with your family? Or with your friends?”

The worry is now evident in Pirlo’s eyes and voice. It is something so unfamiliar that Riccardo forgets the emergency lie he had been about to tell just so he could get out of the situation.

“My friends and family are fine,” he says, his voice trembling just slightly, the emotions raging inside of him probably showing all over his face by now, “And it’s definitely not a girl.”

“Then what--?“ Pirlo begins to ask but Riccardo cuts him short, afraid he is never going to be able to say these things if he stops now.

“Why did you say that thing? Weeks ago, the one about my love life, why did you say it?” there is a cutting edge to his voice now, almost accusing, “I wasn’t the one who started it, so why’d you draw all the attention to me?”

Pirlo looks confused by the question – well, at least as confused as he can without actually changing his facial expression aside from moving his eyebrows – like this was the last thing he expected to hear. (To be fair, it probably was.)

“Is that all? You get berated once and you decide to give up on your studies completely? That is not like you, Riccardo.”

The calmly spoken words feel like daggers hitting Riccardo’s insides over and over again, because it is not like that at all – he did not decide anything, and he definitely is not giving up on anything. (Except maybe on the man in front of him, but he was never Riccardo’s to have in the first place.)

“It’s not that. I’ve been told off before – kinda hard to avoid when hanging out with Claudio,” he retorts, his voice cracking as he continues, “But it’s different with you. You’re different. To me. And I don’t know how to handle it.”

Riccardo’s voice is nothing but a whisper by the time he finishes. He tries desperately not to blink, afraid the tears brimming in his eyes and blurring his vision are going to fall with the first move he makes.

The confused look on Pirlo’s face turns into a frown before the sudden realization flashes in his eyes, the pieces of the puzzle finally connecting in his mind.

“You don’t mean that,” he says slowly, the slight tremble in his voice the only proof of his shock. He makes a gesture as if to touch Riccardo’s face, but his hand falters mid-way and drops back to his side.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” Riccardo whispers, his voice barely paper-thin. His breath is coming in fast, shallow intakes between the words, and he can practically feel the panic mode kicking in.

“Riccardo...” Pirlo says the name gently, almost caressing the syllables on his lips. For a second it seems like he wants to hug Riccardo, but then the intention is buried under his usual façade again, and Riccardo chalks it up to his own wistful thinking.

“You’re so young, don’t know what you want,” the teacher tells him quietly, “It’s just a phase: you’ll get over it in no time.”

Riccardo wants to tell him it is not just some childish infatuation and it is definitely not going to disappear just by ignoring it – he should know, it is what he has been trying to do since he first recognized the feelings bubbling inside him.

However, he knows a gentle rejection when he sees one – Pirlo could have just kicked him out of the classroom and probably got him suspended from the school if he wanted to – which is why he does not argue the point.

“I’ll try. I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, wishing he could just run off before the tears tingling in his eyes actually fall, “Thank you, Sir.”

“You’ll be late from your next class if you don’t hurry,” Pirlo offers him a way out of the situation. He looks like he is about to say something else, but then he just shakes his head and waves Riccardo off.

Riccardo skips the next class, hiding inside a washroom stall for the whole time instead. He will think up an excuse to Professor De Rossi by the next lesson – if Claudio and Giampaolo have not covered for him already, that is.

He just manages to calm down by the time classes end and the students start crowding into the hallways again.

He emerges carefully from the washroom and goes to meet Antonio in front of the Maths classroom – the next lesson they have together. He is glad Antonio is busy copying his homework from a girl in the same course as them, because it gives him more time to collect his thoughts.

It is just an infatuation, brought on by his lack of emotional attachments and Pirlo’s unusual kindness (if you can call it that) towards him. He will get over it, just like he got over his crush on Claudio back in their freshman year.

It is just a matter of conviction, he assures himself, nothing more.

 

Apparently, Riccardo forgot to address the fact that it took him almost a year to get over Claudio, and that was in a situation where the target of his affections knew nothing about his feelings.

Back then it was easy to brush off any accidental touches or longer-than-necessary looks as friendliness and hide all his uncertainties behind jokes and playful insults. Claudio had no reason to doubt anything.

This time there is no such benefit, because Riccardo was stupid enough to confess his feelings to Pirlo. This time every averted eye-contact or an accidental brush in the hallways or during class works as a reminder for both of them.

It proves that the infatuation is still there, despite Riccardo’s best efforts.

Just when Riccardo thinks he has got the feelings under control, he catches Pirlo looking at him with contemplative eyes and everything just comes rushing back in. It is not fair, and it is definitely not funny.

His schoolwork is still suffering from his chronic inability to concentrate on anything.

He skips class more and more often – especially History, which leads to some disapproving glances from Pirlo, but the teacher has not commented it – and he is caught spacing out during lessons on a regular basis whenever he actually bothers to show up.

Claudio and Antonio find it hilarious that Riccardo has suddenly become even worse than them at following the deadlines, while Giampaolo keeps pestering him about the reasons behind the abrupt change, his worry hidden behind the thin veil of curious teasing.

Riccardo wishes he could just open up and tell him everything, but it is not that simple. This part of him is something not even Giampaolo knows of, and Riccardo is afraid he might lose his best friend since forever if he reveals too much.

”Hey Pazzo, guess what? I’m head over heels in love with our male teacher, mind helping me out?” Just, no.

 

The dreams might very well be the worst part.

Waking up in soiled sheets in the middle of the night is nothing new to Riccardo: he got used to it during his early teens when the puberty hit him hard and suddenly everything seemed like a sexual innuendo.

(It did not help that his unfortunate crush on Claudio coincided with this change.)

But that was years ago, and Riccardo had been so sure that the dreams were gone for good once he got a grasp on his own sexuality. He thought he could control it, which is why he is so shocked when he is suddenly back in the square one, all his efforts wiped away in one swift move.

The first time he wakes up with a raging hard-on and the familiar name on his lips, Riccardo is so angry with himself that he can barely go back to sleep, even after jerking off while decidedly not thinking about Pirlo.

It is still the same charming, crooked smile that flashes through his mind as he comes, biting the back of his hand in attempt to muffle his moans.

Usually he does not remember the details in the morning, but the flashbacks emerging from the back of his mind are more than enough to keep him distracted during the days: fingers grasping his hair as he kneels in front of the older man; lips travelling all over his body; a lean body pressed against his; his legs wrapped around the other man’s hips... 

The images follow his wherever he goes, and all of a sudden it is practically impossible to control the reactions of his own body.

 

“The fuck are you doing?” Claudio yells at Riccardo as he sprints past him to cover for his mistake during a practice match.

Riccardo offers him a mumbled apology and attempts to pull himself together. Coach Buffon threatened to bench him during their previous match already, and Riccardo knows he would not hesitate to actually do it if he keeps messing up even the simplest moves.

Unfortunately, concentrating on intercepting opponents’ passes and building up the play is practically impossible when he is painfully aware of the man sitting on the bleachers. Why the hell is Pirlo here? It is not like he has paid any attention to high school football before.

They end the game with some practice on short passes before Coach Buffon gathers them in a circle and beckons for his colleague to join them with an insistent “C’mon, Andrea, don’t be a spoilsport!”

Everyone’s eyes are on Pirlo as he makes his way to the pitch, annoyance practically seething out of him.

“Is this going to take long? I have better things to do than wait for you to finish your sorry excuse of a practice.”

Buffon just laughs off the comment, carelessly throwing his arm over his friend’s shoulders. Pirlo looks like he is ready to strangle him on the spot, but obviously Buffon has mastered the skill of ignoring his death glares, not even flinching at the look that usually sends the students trembling in fear.

“Now guys, can you imagine that the good old Pirlo here was actually this close to becoming a professional footballer before recurring injuries stopped him?” the coach asks, obviously enjoying the baffled expressions that reveal that no, they definitely cannot imagine it.

Pirlo tries to shrug off Buffon’s arm, whispering something to him in exasperation.

“Oh, Andrea, don’t belittle yourself!” Buffon exclaims, throwing up his arms in a theatrical fashion, laughing heartily, “Just show them a couple of passes, I’m sure they’re all just dying to see it. Right, guys?”

The response he gets from the students could be more enthusiastic, but the coach pointedly ignores it as he gestures to Alberto to pass the ball to Pirlo.

Pirlo catches Riccardo’s eyes just a moment before he sends the ball in his direction in one swift, unhesitant touch. Riccardo has barely time to register what is happening before the ball is securely at his feet.

“Now, that is a pass! Take a note of this, Mr. Montolivo – your passes have been seriously lacking in quality lately,” Buffon quips with a short applause, his grin spreading from ear to ear.

Riccardo gives a quick nod in response – his eyes once again stealing a glance at the man standing next to the coach – before they are sent to stretch and cool off while Buffon concentrates on pestering Pirlo some more.

“I never knew Pirlo played football,” Antonio comments as he partners up with Riccardo for the stretches, “That pass looked super soft, like he barely touched it! How’d it feel?”

“It was great,” Riccardo answers quietly, his mind still on the brief eye-contact before the pass, “Ow, shit! Too hard! Get off!”

Antonio lets go of Riccardo’s leg and helps him up with a laugh.

Riccardo scoffs at him in annoyance, his aching muscles protesting the movement. He falls into step with Antonio nonetheless as they head towards the dressing rooms.

They do not get very far, though, before Pirlo’s voice halts them: “Mr. Montolivo, don’t forget your career counselling tomorrow afternoon. I’m not going to reschedule it again!”

Antonio sniggers at Riccardo’s blush and claps him on the shoulder cordially, “Close to a pro footballer my ass; he’s still the same old Pirlo. Professional at being an asshole, I’d say.”

Riccardo has long since given up on trying to correct his friends’ assumptions that Pirlo is bullying him when it is actually Riccardo who screwed up in the first place. What could he say without raising suspicions, anyways?

 

Riccardo did not exactly forget the first career counselling meeting: he had intended to go, really, had even made his way to the classroom door before panicking and running away. It had been too soon after the uncomfortable discussion with Pirlo, and Riccardo had not been ready to face his homeroom teacher just yet.

He is far from ready now, which is why he finds himself still pacing around the hallways ten minutes into the scheduled meeting. 

He knows he cannot avoid it forever, because the career counselling is obligatory for every senior, but he wishes he could just put it off a bit longer. Maybe then he will have the courage to look his teacher in the eye without having an immediate panic attack.

Pirlo is sitting at his desk when Riccardo finally enters the classroom – twenty minutes late, but the teacher does not comment it. His calm and collected demeanour is a complete opposite of the storm of emotions raging inside of Riccardo.

“Please close the door and have a seat, Mr. Montolivo,” his tone is steady and his gaze unwavering as he gestures toward the chair positioned on the other side of the desk. 

“So, have you thought about your choices again?” he asks matter-of-factly once Riccardo is settled down.

The question barely registers in Riccardo’s overwhelmed mind. Pirlo is right there, close enough to touch, only the desk separating them from each other. Riccardo can actually smell the faint scent of his deodorant – it is the same smell he keeps dreaming of during the nights, and the reminder of his dreams is enough to make his body react involuntarily.

The last time they were alone in this same classroom, Riccardo ended up spilling out all his feelings to Pirlo. The merest thought of what might happen this time simply terrifies him.

He balls his fists in his lap, his blunt nails digging into his palms painfully, refusing to look up into his teacher’s eyes.

“No, I haven’t,” he chokes out belatedly, barely louder than a whisper. How could he even begin to worry about his future when there is a plenty to worry about in the present?

Pirlo sighs, lowering Riccardo’s papers from his hands, “But you’re not happy with your current plans either, correct?”

He sounds so patient, like talking to a disobedient child. Riccardo shrugs in response, not trusting his voice enough to actually speak up.

“Riccardo, look at me,” Pirlo tells him calmly – the flashbacks to their previous conversation flood Riccardo’s mind as he finally lifts his gaze from his lap, still not quite meeting Pirlo’s eyes but at least making an effort.

“This is not easy for me either, Riccardo. Please, just help me out a little here.”

Riccardo bites his lip in attempt to keep it from trembling. The way Pirlo keeps using his first name has sent his emotions into overdrive, and the way he looks at Riccardo does not help the situation in the least. Riccardo wants to reach out to him so badly, consequences be damned.

“I’m sorry. I just--I can’t think of anything. I don’t know what I want,” by some miracle he manages to find his voice again, even though it is thin and trembling, just barely louder than a whisper.

He cannot handle this. He cannot keep pretending the feelings are not there, not when he has to face his teacher every single day at school, when Pirlo keeps looking at him like that, like he actually cares.

His nails are probably breaking the skin of his palms by now, but he cannot uncurl his fists when the pain is the only thing keeping him from breaking down right there.

“I can’t do this. I’m sorry. It’s not going away, and I can’t--” Riccardo is rambling as he stands up, desperate to get away from the room that suddenly feels much too small, “I’ll just--I’ll hand in a request to switch classes. Should have done that from the start. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” Pirlo snaps, his voice still quiet but there is a cutting edge to it now. He presses his fingers on his forehead, like fighting a headache, “God, Riccardo, you have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?”

Riccardo is stuck in place as Pirlo gets up, too, and rounds the desk to come face to face with him. He does not know what the man is talking about, cannot even begin to decipher what his change of tone might mean.

Pirlo is much too close for comfort, and Riccardo bites his lip uncertainly, finally meeting his eyes when the silence between them stretches.

“Absolutely not a fucking idea...” the teacher breathes out, and Riccardo almost whimpers when he feels the warm breath on his face. He is so turned on it practically hurts, just from the close proximity. He needs to get away.

Pirlo caresses his face carefully, the touch sending sparks of something tingling down his body, so intense that Riccardo can feel it even in his toes. And even though the teacher leans in slowly, slowly – giving him more than enough time to understand what is happening – Riccardo’s breath still catches when their lips actually meet.

This is just another dream. It must be a dream, because Pirlo is not gay and he definitely is not interested in Riccardo. There is no way this is actually happening.

But the feeling of Pirlo’s lips on his is much more intense than anything he has ever dreamed of: hungry, desperate, hard, soft, caring, hesitant, certain – all of that and much more packed into that one simple press of lips on his.

“Professor--” he begins when they finally break the kiss, but corrects himself immediately, “Andrea. What are we--?”

He cannot think of any proper way to end the question, his mind delightfully blank for the first time since this whole ordeal started. His whole body is trembling, and Andrea’s arm wrapped around his waist is the only reason he can stay in an upright position, his knees buckling under him.

Andrea answers him by kissing him again, and Riccardo allows himself be pressed against the desk and then he is sitting on the table top, his legs spread and Andrea’s body flush against his.

This time he actually does whimper when he feels Andrea’s erection pressed against his inner thigh.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Andrea gasps out when they separate for breath, “I’m your teacher, it’s not right.”

He makes no move to pull away though, latching his lips on Riccardo’s neck instead. 

Riccardo has to bite his lip in order to keep his voice down, afraid someone might hear them. The fear of getting caught flashes through his mind but it is gone as soon as it appears, the feeling of Andrea’s hands running over his stomach robbing him of all the conscious thought.

He cannot help it: he comes into his pants the moment Andrea touches his cock through the layers of clothing, completely overwhelmed by the emotions, the sudden turn of events, and Andrea’s exploring touches.

“Shit,” he whispers, pressing his face into Andrea’s shoulder in order to hide his embarrassment. He is too afraid to look at Andrea – why would he want an inexperienced kid like Riccardo when he himself is so perfect, so absolutely amazing?

“It’s alright,” Andrea tells him, pressing gentle kisses into Riccardo’s hair, hugging him even closer to his chest, “You’re amazing, Riccardo. It’s alright.”

Riccardo snuggles as close to him as he can, basking in his warmth, sucking up all the comfort he can get.

“Can I touch you?” he asks after a while, Andrea’s obvious erection still pressed against his thigh, “Please? I need it.”

“Go ahead,” Andrea replies, leaning back just enough so Riccardo can slip his hands between their bodies and open the fly of his trousers.

Riccardo has never done this to anyone but himself, and there is just no comparing the experiences. Andrea’s cock feels unfamiliar in his hand – it is bigger, the angle is different, and Riccardo has absolutely no idea what he is doing.

His rhythm is unsteady and he is unsure whether he is using enough force, but from the way Andrea gasps into his hair and bucks his hips against his hand, he can guess he is doing something right. It gives him a bit more confidence.

It takes mere minutes for Andrea to come into Riccardo’s hand, groaning in a low voice that must be the most amazing sound Riccardo has ever heard.

“Was it--did I do okay?” he asks when Andrea reaches for the box of tissues on the desk behind him and starts cleaning up the remains of his come.

He takes a hold of Riccardo’s wrist and wipes his hand clean slowly, and then he presses a soft kiss against the palm before answering: “It was perfect. You are perfect.”

Riccardo thought he could not feel any better than he already did, but despite all odds the words still make a completely new bout of happiness bubble inside his chest. At that one moment, not even the fear of somebody walking in on them or the uncomfortable stickiness in his pants could wipe away that feeling.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey Monty, wanna come to the mall with us?”  
  
Riccardo returns Claudio’s infectious grin with an apologetic one as he shakes his head in response: “Sorry, I have a meeting with Pirlo again. Career planning, you know.”  
  
He knows he is sounding much too happy to decline the invitation, but there is not much he can do about it. The choice between meeting with Andrea and hanging out with his friends is not really a choice at all – especially when the latter option would most likely include hanging out with Alberto’s and _Claudio’s_  girlfriends as well.  
  
It is not that he does not like Michela or Roberta. Given, he does not know either of them too well – Michela rarely tagged along with them back when she was the only girl in the group, and Roberta came into the picture only recently, at a time when Riccardo was utterly distracted with his own love life.  
  
Had Claudio found anyone, say, half a year earlier, Riccardo is sure he would have been extremely jealous of her. It is one thing being over a crush when you are still the one who gets to spend most of your time with the man in question – handling the situation where there is someone else is a different case altogether.  
  
Now, however, he can be genuinely happy for Claudio. Roberta has made a huge difference in the short time they have been dating: even though Claudio is still the same adorable idiot Riccardo has known for years, with Roberta he seems calmer; more responsible and considerate in his actions.  
  
To think a girl like that has been in their class all along, but none of them ever paid her any attention before she approached Claudio herself.  
  
Riccardo does not really know the whole story, too busy with his own budding relationship (if you can call it that) to pay attention to Claudio’s incessant bragging.  
  
“He still going on about that? Man, you gotta stand up for yourself or he’s gonna suck out your soul or something!” Claudio huffs, clapping Riccardo’s shoulder in a compassionate manner, “I finished the counselling with him in record time: no need to spend more time with the old fart than absolutely necessary.”  
  
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t care where you end up as long as you’re out of his sight?” Giampaolo butts into the conversation, ruffling Claudio’s impeccably styled hair much to the other boy’s horror.  
  
Riccardo sniggers at his friends’ antics as he heads towards the teachers’ lounge.  
  
“I’ll be fine, Claudio. I’m just lagging behind a bit: we’ll figure it out soon enough,” he assures with a laugh, walking backwards in the corridor in order to still face his friends, “Just get going, I’m sure Roberta is waiting for you already.”  
  
The mention of his girlfriend sends Claudio skipping out of the corridor with one last hurried wave to Riccardo. Giampaolo follows him in a slower pace, giving Riccardo a thumbs-up before he disappears too.  
  
If Riccardo was not so certain that his secret was still safe, he would have thought Giampaolo had distracted Claudio on purpose from the subject of his meeting with Pirlo.  
  
The lounge seems much more inviting this time around, probably because most of the teachers have left already, so the suspicious stares are also conspicuously absent.  
  
Professor De Rossi is sitting in behind his own desk, going through a pile of what looks like the surprise exams he handed Riccardo’s class earlier today. He lifts his gaze from the papers as Riccardo passes him and offers him a wide smile.  
  
“You did well this time. Keep it up from now on, alright?”  
  
Riccardo responds with a relieved smile and nods an affirmative. It has been barely a week since the career counselling with Andrea, but obviously he is beginning to catch up with the rest of the class already. (Despite the bouts of distraction still catching him off-guard every now and then.)  
  
Andrea is reading something at his desk, biting the end of his pen absentmindedly and reading-glasses perched on his nose. He looks so amazingly sexy (in a smart way) that Riccardo feels almost bad for disrupting the image.  
  
“Professor Pirlo?” he inquires anyways as he stops a few paces away from the desk.  
  
He is a bit disappointed when Andrea barely looks up from his papers and gestures for him to sit down, not a sign of shock from his sudden appearance.  
  
He takes a seat nonetheless, meeting Andrea’s eyes with a shy smile. He knows he needs to act like there is nothing between them, painfully aware of the handful of teachers still loitering around the room, but it is just  _so hard_  when every fibre of him wants to reach out to Andrea.  
  
Andrea is faring much better, his expression pointedly unreadable and tone formal as he speaks: “I surely hope you’ve prepared a bit better this time, Mr. Montolivo.”  
  
Riccardo is not, really, but not for the lack of trying. He spent the previous night going through the brochures from different universities and other schools hoping that something might catch his interest, but nothing did and he was left just as empty-handed as he was before.  
  
“It’s not that easy,” he admits softly, brushing off a strand of hair that is threatening to fall on his face, “I seriously can’t think of anything. Nothing just seems right.”  
  
Andrea fixes him with a steady look which is filled with bewilderment and disappointment, but not an ounce of disbelief Riccardo was expecting.  
  
“You’re an active young man; surely there is  _something_  you wish to do with your life.”  
  
 _I don’t care what I’ll do as long as you’re a part of it,_  is what Riccardo wants to say for real, but it is not what Andrea wants to hear – it is also not something Riccardo can just say out loud in the teachers’ lounge where anyone could hear him.  
  
He shrugs instead, trying to convey his apology through their eye-contact.  
  
The teacher lets out an audible sigh, like he had been hoping it would not come to this. He searches Riccardo’s eyes in a desperate attempt to find some answers there.  
  
Riccardo is hoping against hope that his indecisiveness and obvious immaturity is not going to affect whatever is going on between them. He briefly wishes he was a better liar – maybe he could have assured Andrea that his plans were going well; that he has moved well past his childhood dream of becoming a professional footballer and has come up with something more realistic instead.  
  
“You told me you liked children, didn’t you?” Andrea asks suddenly, “And you’ve done some junior coaching too, right?”  
  
This renders Riccardo speechless, because he never thought Andrea would remember an off-hand comment like that, spoken long before he confessed his feelings to the older man.  
  
He manages to nod in answer, uncertain where this is supposed to be going.  
  
Andrea hesitates, obviously uncomfortable with this turn of events – he did say he did not want to affect students’ choices outright, did he not?  
  
“Have you ever thought about becoming a teacher? Or even a coach, although I think it would be difficult without any actual experience in the football world.”  
  
Frankly, teaching has never even crossed Riccardo’s mind. He likes kids, sure, but to actually teach them is completely different from the play-games of football he is used to at the summer camps.  
  
“I’d make a terrible teacher,” he says with an uncertain laugh, averting his eyes from Andrea’s for the first time since he first sat down.  
  
“Oh, I’m sure you’d make a splendid teacher – a lot better than I could ever be, at least,” Andrea retorts easily as he reaches out over the desk, grasping Riccardo’s wrist momentarily before he remembers where they are and retracts his hand again.  
  
“But it’s your choice, obviously. You have to do what you think is right.”  
  
“You’re a great teacher, it’s the students here that are horrible,” Riccardo whispers gently, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards when he can see the slightest of flushes rising on Andrea’s cheeks.  
  
Andrea clears his throat and glances around to make sure no one is paying any attention to them before answering with an amused tone: “I’d say you’re too biased to judge that.”  
  
Riccardo actually giggles at the comment – now he is blushing too, much more brightly than Andrea ever could. He silently curses his nonexistent control over his bodily functions when he is around his homeroom teacher.  
  
“I actually thought about the coaching, for a while. I mean, surely there’re some small clubs that can’t afford an actual professional to coach the youngest kids, right?” Riccardo finally admits.   
  
It is actually the closest he has got to a proper plan since he understood he could never be good enough to be a professional player. It is why he applied for his first job at the summer camp a couple years back, but he never got any further with the idea.  
  
Andrea looks contemplative, and he hesitates for a long time before he finally says: “I have some acquaintances in Milan who have some influence in the junior training there. Perhaps they could help you get a part-time job as an assistant coach or something. That is, if you actually move there, of course.”  
  
Riccardo opens his mouth to reply but the words get stuck on his tongue as the message gradually sinks in.   
  
A  _job_ , Andrea is seriously offering to help him to get a job in Milan. Coaching junior footballers, which would be like a dream come true for Riccardo. He would still need to get into a school of some sort, obviously, but it would still be a lot more than what he has come up by himself.  
  
“Wow, that would be awesome,” – if they were alone, he would jump Andrea right then and there and show him just how grateful he is of the offer – “Thank you, Sir.”  
  
“Don’t get too excited over it, I can’t promise you anything for certain before I’ve talked to my friends,” Andrea warns him, but the warmth in his eyes informs Riccardo that the teacher is doing this only for  _him_ , and it is more than enough for now.  
  
“You should talk to Gigi--I mean, Coach Buffon, about the possible education that could help you with the coaching if that’s really what you want to go for.”  
  
Riccardo nods his understanding, suddenly full of excitement over this possible new door that has opened for him. It is just a beginning, he knows, but maybe this will finally be the path he has been looking for. It is worth a look, at least.  
  
Andrea is collecting the papers from his desk and carefully packing them into his bag, obviously preparing to go home now that he is done with the good deed of the day.  
  
Riccardo gets up from his chair but lingers by the desk until the man is finished with his packing. He wishes he had some excuse, just something that could prolong the meeting just a little bit longer. Just until the last few teachers had left, so they could...  
  
“Do you have anywhere to be right now?” Andrea asks as he walks past Riccardo, “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride home.”  
  
Riccardo does not have to be told twice: he hurries to catch up with his teacher’s fast strides, nodding his head shyly at Professor De Rossi as they pass his desk and make their way out of the room.  
  
His bike is parked in front of the school, but he sure as hell is not going to point that out to Andrea.  
  
  
  
The car looks new: it is sleek, shining and surprisingly roomy on the inside as Riccardo settles hesitantly on the passenger’s seat.  
  
Andrea has not said a word since they left the teachers’ lounge, and Riccardo is starting to feel the familiar tingles of nervousness: perhaps he has done something wrong, perhaps he has misinterpreted the whole situation and Andrea is going to tell him to switch classes after all...  
  
A firm hand on his thigh interrupts Riccardo’s internal stressfest and Andrea kisses his lips chastely the moment he turns to face him.  
  
“We need to stop meeting at school: drives me crazy not being able to touch you.”  
  
He turns on the engine and drives off the parking lot, away from the prying eyes of the people still in the school area. His hand returns on Riccardo’s thigh as soon as he is done with changing gears, his fingers drawing an unfamiliar pattern on the trouser-clad skin.  
  
Riccardo’s breath catches as the fingers dib between his legs briefly, much too close for comfort when his overly imaginative brain has already driven him into a constant state of arousal.   
  
(One would think he would be able to control his reactions better after all their secret encounters in empty classrooms and washroom stalls during the past week, but it seems like the more he gets, the more he craves.)  
  
There a two child seats in the backseat: a baby seat and a booster cushion. Riccardo guesses the latter is for Niccolò, but only now it hits him that apparently Andrea has other kids as well. A pretty young kid at that, at least judging from the other seat.  
  
They have not spoken anything about their private lives – actually, they have barely spoken at all aside from the school stuff – and Riccardo wants to ask about Andrea’s family  _so much_ , but this is definitely not the right time for it.  
  
Maybe he is also a bit scared to hear the truth. It is so easy to ignore the implications – the golden band on Andrea’s ring finger, the child seats in the car, the time he actually met Niccolò – as long as they do not bring up the subject.  
  
Riccardo thinks he  _should_  feel guilty, but it is impossible when Andrea’s hand is caressing his leg, occasionally brushing against his half-hard cock (probably on purpose).  
  
He can barely pay attention to where they are going – nowhere near Riccardo’s home, that is for sure – so he is taken by a surprise when Andrea pulls off the road to an empty parking lot, not a single soul anywhere to be seen.  
  
“Come here,” Andrea tells him roughly as he moves his seat backwards to create more space between himself and the steering wheel.  
  
Riccardo does not need to be told twice: he climbs over the gearstick and into Andrea’s lap, straddling him and pressing up against his chest, making the best of the limited space they have.  
  
The kiss Andrea pulls him into is hard and needy; like it has been ages since the last time they did this. (Actually, they managed to sneak in a quick make-out session after the homeroom just today, but Riccardo is definitely not complaining.)  
  
“We need to be more careful,” Andrea gasps against his lips, his fingers tangled in Riccardo’s hair, “We’ll be seriously fucked if we get caught.”  
  
Riccardo hums his understanding into the kiss, wriggling his hips in attempt to put more pressure on his aching cock. Who cares if his brain only registered the  _fucked_  part from the sentence? Andrea cannot seriously think this is a good situation to bring up any meaningful subjects.  
  
Andrea lets out a breathy chuckle and untangles his hands from Riccardo’s hair in favour of grabbing his hips. He adjusts their position so that their clothed erections are aligned together, earning a relieved moan from Riccardo.  
  
“You’re so fucking cute,” he tells Riccardo before nibbling his lower lip gently and pushing his own hips upwards to create more friction.  
  
“No I’m not,” Riccardo huffs in annoyance, because  _cute_  is the last thing he wants to be called in a situation like this. Handsome, hot, sexy – hell, he would even take  _beautiful_  over cute right now.  
  
“Oh, but you  _are_ ,” Andrea notes in an amused tone, interrupting Riccardo’s further protests by reaching down between their bodies and opening his trousers.  
  
The first touch on his cock and Riccardo throws his head back, instinctively leaning backwards to give Andrea more leverage between their bodies.  
  
Of course, he manages to hit the horn with his elbow in the process, and the sudden loud voice almost makes him jump off Andrea’s lap.  
  
“Okay, back to your own seat, you,” Andrea is laughing openly now, and it is so infectious that Riccardo has to let out a giggle of his own as he climbs off Andrea’s lap and settles in the passengers seat as comfortably as he can – sitting sideways, leaning on the door, his spread legs thrown in the space between the seats.  
  
Andrea follows him immediately, leaning over him to kiss him thoroughly before he moves his attention to Riccardo’s trousers again, pulling them down to his thighs along with his underwear to release his erection completely from the confines.  
  
The cramped front seat is definitely not the most comfortable place to be doing this, but Riccardo does not care because Andrea is opening the buttons of his shirt now, kissing his chest. His hand is moving leisurely on Riccardo’s cock, not hard enough to push him over the edge, but more than enough to drive him crazy craving for more.  
  
“More,” he manages to gasp out, “Please, I want you inside me, Andrea.”  
  
Andrea halts everything he is doing, looking up at Riccardo’s pleading eyes.  
  
“No,” he says quietly, and the look in his eyes leaves no space for arguments.  
  
Riccardo tries anyways: “Why not? I can handle it. I  _need_  it.”  
  
“I said  _no_!” Andrea snaps more sharply this time, rising to lean against his hands in order to meet Riccardo’s eyes straight up, “God, Riccardo, you don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you?”  
  
“I know enough!” Riccardo retorts quickly, biting the inside of his lip. He is not a fucking kid: he knows the basic idea; he knows it is going to hurt; he knows he might not even like it – but he also  _knows_  he wants Andrea to do it, to be his first.  
  
Andrea sighs in exasperation, once again looking at Riccardo like he was a stubborn child instead of his lover, and Riccardo is suddenly reminded of the fact that this is his  _teacher_  he is dealing with.  
  
“I’m not a child,” he tells Andrea, meeting his eyes with a decisive look that will hopefully convey all his unspoken feelings to the older man.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Andrea agrees softly, and then he moves his hand back to Riccardo’s cock, gathering the tips of precome gathered there before reaching down between his spread legs.  
  
Riccardo is not prepared for the horrible burn that courses through his body when Andrea presses merely the tip of his forefinger inside him. His whole body grows tense immediately and he hits his head against the car window as he jerks away from the intrusion instinctively.  
  
“See?” Andrea questions as he retracts his finger, returning to his earlier caresses on Riccardo’s cock, “It’s not about your age, Riccardo. I don’t have anything to prepare you with, and I sure as hell am not going to fuck you raw. I won’t hurt you like that.”  
  
Riccardo whimpers when the hand on his erection grows firmer, too far gone to answer Andrea in words: the combination of the pressure on his cock and the relief that the pain is gone pushing him fast towards an orgasm.  
  
Just as the first waves of release start running through his body, Andrea squeezes the base of his cock, effectively halting the orgasm at the last possible moment. Riccardo bucks his hips in desperate attempt for the last final push, but Andrea holds his ground.  
  
“There are other ways to feel closer, you know?” he whispers as he leans down to kiss Riccardo softly before going down his torso, his lips ghosting over the sweaty skin, the cool feel of his breath making Riccardo shiver underneath him.  
  
The first lick on the tip of his cock makes Riccardo see stars and he fights against the urge to buck against Andrea’s lips. He does not want this to end too soon; one premature orgasm was embarrassing enough.  
  
Andrea keeps going on slowly, each lick, suck and kiss sending a new pleasurable sensation sparking inside Riccardo.  
  
As much as Riccardo wishes this feeling would last forever, he is much too close to release already. He reaches out for Andrea’s hair, tries to tell him to stop, to pull away, but the man merely looks up at him with burning eyes and takes him in deeper.  
  
And then Riccardo is gone, moaning out Andrea’s name as he comes into his mouth.  
  
Andrea kisses his belly gently once he is done, his beard tickling the sensitive skin just below his navel. “Good enough for now?”  
  
Riccardo laughs exhaustedly and nods lazily, wiping away the odd tears that had gathered in his eyes during his orgasm.  
  
He takes a moment to gather his remaining energy before returning the favour to Andrea.   
  
His actions are a far cry from Andrea’s – too rushed and inexperienced, and he gags and pulls away just before Andrea’s release, so the come hits his lips and cheek instead of his mouth – but nevertheless Andrea pulls him into a long kiss afterwards and tells him he did great.  
  
Riccardo wants to tell him to stop lying, but instead he just accepts the compliment, snuggling up against Andrea’s side the whole ride back to Turin.  
  
  
  
At home Riccardo escapes his parents’ inquiring looks and his brother’s annoying jibes into the bathroom, letting the warm shower wash away the remains of sweat and come on his skin.  
  
As he is ready to step out of the shower, a thought hits him.  
  
He reaches out for a jar of some kind of hand cream (it is probably his brother’s, because he definitely has never used it) and lathers a few of his fingers with it.  
  
If he wants Andrea to be his first, he better be prepared for it when the time comes. He does not know when that will be – Andrea seemed rather resolute on the subject – but Riccardo has his ways of getting what he wants.  
  
The burn is almost intolerable as he works the first finger inside himself, but he does not stop. It will get better, it  _must_  get better.   
  
He leans his forehead on the cool tiles of the bathroom wall as he waits for the pain to subside, the warm water still running down his back, soothing his tense muscles.  
  
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he dares to move his finger experimentally in and out of the hole, wriggling the digit just a little to make more room for the movements. The feeling is not exactly bad anymore, mostly just odd. Unfamiliar.  
  
The pain comes back tenfold when he tries to insert another finger alongside the first one, the hand cream obviously not enough lubrication to ease the entry.  
  
His legs buckle underneath him and he falls on his knees to the floor, the impact momentarily taking his attention away from the stretching. He is trembling all over by now, and there is no Andrea to kiss his brow and comfort him this time, but he keeps going on anyways.  
  
It takes him even longer to get used to the second finger, and the pain never stops completely even as he begins to move his hand tentatively, exploring his insides for something,  _anything_ , that would make this worth trying again.  
  
And then he hits it: his fingers graze against the spot that makes his breath catch suddenly and his cock twitch in interest.  
  
He comes a second time that day just like that – sitting on the cold tiles, leaning on the bathroom wall, two of his fingers up his ass and his other hand jerking on his cock, thinking of Andrea and  _yes, please, I love you so much, please never leave me_.  
  
He comes back to his senses when his brother starts banging the bathroom door, yelling at him not to use up all the hot water, “you stupid, shower-hogging, airheaded teen!”  
  
There are obvious traces of blood on his fingers when he finally retracts them.


	5. Chapter 5

Riccardo is trying to act as inconspicuously as possible as he walks around the shelves stacked with objects that make his blush deepen by the second. He wishes he could just sink into the wall, make himself invisible. Or alternatively just run out of the shop, which would inevitably draw even more attention to him.  
  
“Wow, guys, look at this!” Claudio is definitely not helping his attempt to disappear into thin air, not even bothering to lower his voice as he waves something that looks like a massive dildo in his hand, “Do girls seriously use stuff like this?”  
  
“Why don’t you buy it for Roberta and see her reaction?” Giampaolo quips in a resigned tone, looking just as uncomfortable as Riccardo is feeling. Alberto really was the smart one when he refused to go along with Claudio’s stupid idea.  
  
“Just put it away,” Riccardo hisses when Claudio starts turning the  _thing_  around in his hands, studying it from every angle, “I doubt Noce’d appreciate a gift like that.”  
  
Riccardo doubts Antonio is going to appreciate anything they could possibly buy at a shop like this, but telling that to Claudio would be like talking to a wall, so he saves his breath.  
  
Antonio is a big boy, not to mention he has tolerated Claudio’s peculiar ways for over ten years already – it is not like he cannot handle one more perverted gift for his 19th birthday.  
  
“You guys are no fun,” Claudio pouts but puts the dildo away nonetheless, moving on along the shelves, sniggering at some objects as he goes.  
  
“I have no idea how Roberta puts up with him,” Giampaolo mutters to Riccardo, leaning on his shoulder in all too familiar way, “He’s like a fucking child in a candy store.”  
  
“He’d never take her to a place like this,” Riccardo comments dryly, flinging his own arm around Giampaolo’s shoulders in a comradely fashion, “That’s why he keeps us around. To make  _our_  lives living hell instead of hers.”  
  
“Maybe we should just leave him here on his own?”  
  
Riccardo opens his mouth to reply but they are interrupted by a smiling clerk who inquires whether they would like to see the store’s new product line for gay couples.  
  
“Why of course! Right, honey?” Giampaolo replies cheekily as Riccardo stutters in shock.   
  
He follows the clerk only when his friend tugs at his arm insistently, chatting with the girl all the way to the shelves filled with lubricants and massage oils and scandalous costumes and a bunch of other objects Riccardo does not want to familiarize himself with.  
  
“Actually, we’re here helping our friend to pick a present for his partner,” Giampaolo confines in her in all seriousness, lowering his voice and glancing around to make sure Claudio is out of earshot, “He is a bit self-conscious about it, tries to act like a huge ladies man, the poor lad.”  
  
Riccardo has to hide his laughter behind a cough as he finally understands what Giampaolo is doing.  
  
They exit the store fifteen minutes later with a bag of harmless enough stuff for Antonio – some flavoured condoms, DVDs, lubricant and the likes – and one extremely embarrassed Claudio.  
  
“I hate you, Pazzo. Why the hell did you have to go and say stuff like that?” he moans in horror, glaring daggers at Giampaolo who is still hanging off Riccardo’s shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
“Serves you right for dragging us there in the first place,” Giampaolo retorts, rolling his eyes at the other boy’s despair, “C’mon man, you weren’t the only one she thought was gay.”  
  
Riccardo is trying hard to look like he is not there at all, unwilling to take part in this particular conversation. It is at times like this that he really feels like an outsider with his friends, no matter how much he enjoys their company otherwise.  
  
“That’s because  _you_  keep on being so touchy-feely with each other!” Claudio huffs in annoyance, “I didn’t do anything and she still thought I was a faggot because of you!”  
  
“Don’t use that word,” Riccardo says quietly, not quite meeting Claudio’s eyes, but his words are swallowed up by a much louder voice: “Language, Mr. Marchisio.”  
  
Coach Buffon is standing right behind them, his usual grin replaced with a more Pirlo-ish frown. He is pushing a baby stroller, and with his tracksuit and the light blue diaper bag flung over his shoulder he looks just like the model of a sporty daddy right from some family magazine.  
  
Claudio sinks back a little, taken by a surprise by their coach’s sudden appearance, “Sorry, coach, won’t do it again.”  
  
“You better not,” Buffon turns his eyes toward Riccardo and Giampaolo, “You two make sure he behaves, okay?”  
  
“Sure thing, coach,” Giampaolo quips with a mock salute and a wide smile, while Riccardo barely nods.  
  
Buffon’s eyes linger on Riccardo for a while, and the boy has a creeping suspicion that the coach heard his quiet protest even if Claudio did not. He pointedly averts his eyes, turning his attention to the boy in the stroller instead.  
  
He cannot help but smile when the tiny boy with huge brown eyes and pouty mouth looks straight back at him, obviously curious of these new people surrounding him. Riccardo leans down to take a closer look as he inquires: “So who’s this little fellow?”  
  
And just like that the stern demeanour disappears and is replaced by a proud father beaming back at them.  
  
“ _This_  is Louis Thomas Buffon, the most amazing toddler in the whole world and the future hope of the Italian national team,” he lowers his voice just a notch, like revealing a secret, “Takes after his daddy, obviously.”  
  
“He’s cute,” Riccardo smiles down at the kid and reaches out his hand so the toddler can take a hold of his fingers. He receives a bright smile and a giggle in return, and he can practically feel his insides dwelling with adoration.  
  
“Monty, you’re acting like a total girl again,” Giampaolo notes, but leans down to look over Riccardo’s shoulder anyways, making a funny face at the boy – he is rewarded with a delighted laughter.  
  
“And you guys seriously wonder why people keep mistaking you for a couple?” Claudio sniggers at them once Buffon has left them to complete his afternoon jog. His earlier dismay is all but gone, and now he seems determined to make fun of them instead.  
  
“Nah, you’re just jealous that Monty prefers me over you,” Giampaolo retorts easily, poking Riccardo’s cheek affectionately, “Don’t you have somewhere to go? I thought you promised to help Noce make the punch for tonight?”  
  
“Not sure it’s such a good idea, letting him anywhere near the punch,” Riccardo mutters as Claudio leaves them, probably to buy some extremely strong alcoholic beverages to spike the drink with. Riccardo is  _not_  going to touch that mix.  
  
Giampaolo merely laughs at Riccardo’s suspicions and pushes a packet of something into his hand.   
  
It is the small vial of lubricant they bought for Antonio, obviously nicked from the plastic bag sometime before Claudio left.  
  
“Say hi to Professor Pirlo from me,” Giampaolo tells him with a knowing smile before he skips off, too, “See you at the party!”  
  
Riccardo is too stunned to do anything but stare at his friend’s retreating back until he turns around the corner and disappears from view.   
  
The vial in his hand suddenly feels like it weighs a ton, and he hides it in the back pocket of his jeans before anyone notices it.  
  
  
  
 _What? Why? How? Since when?_  
  
The questions do not leave Riccardo alone no matter how much he tries to ignore them.  
  
He had tried to be so careful: he always made sure no one was around before approaching Andrea; they had limited their contacts at school to bare minimum after the first week; he never let anything slip, not even as a joke, and Giampaolo never gave any indication that he knew.  
  
Is he really that easy to read? Just how many of his classmates know already? Maybe he has been the laughing stock of the whole school all this time, and he just never noticed!  
  
Riccardo is officially freaking out.  
  
“Calm down, Riccardo,” Andrea tells him over the phone, his steady voice slowly sinking in to Riccardo’s panicky mind, making his racing heartbeat slow down just a little bit, “Remember that Pazzini knows you better than everyone else combined –  _no one else_  knows, you hear me?”  
  
“How can you be so sure?” he asks once his breath has calmed down, sniffling just a little. He needs to hear Andrea’s reassurances; he takes in every word like they were enough to make everything better. They are, at least in Riccardo’s mind.  
  
“Because I know you. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I know a thing or two about your friends as well,” Andrea chuckles softly, making Riccardo giggle too, “Trust me, if anyone else knew, you would’ve heard of it by now.”  
  
He is right, of course. Riccardo is being ridiculous: he has known Giampaolo for ages – he cannot even remember a time when they were not friends – and there is no reason for him to think that Giampaolo would ever reveal his secret.  
  
Now that he thinks about it, it makes sense that Giampaolo knows. He has always been able to read Riccardo like an open book, just like Riccardo can read him – at least he thought he could – so why would this time be any different?  
  
There are sounds of children squealing in Andrea’s end of the line. Riccardo cannot stop himself from asking about it.  
  
“Where’re you? I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”  
  
“Nothing of importance. Gigi’s here, Thomas and Angela are having a play date.”  
  
Andrea mentions his daughter like it is no big deal, and Riccardo cannot help wondering once again what kind of a family Andrea has. He has two kids – Niccolò and Angela – that much Riccardo knows. Andrea’s wife never comes up in their conversations, and were it not for the ring Andrea keeps wearing, Riccardo would think she is no longer in the picture.  
  
“I met them earlier – Coach Buffon and his son, I mean. He’s adorable,” he changes the subject smoothly, once again not revealing any of his inner thoughts to Andrea.  
  
“Make sure not to say that in front of Gigi. He becomes insufferably full of himself whenever someone mentions Thomas even without any additional praise,” Andrea notes amusedly, and Riccardo can practically see him rolling his eyes as he speaks.   
  
“I think I kinda told him already,” he admits, imitating Andrea’s tone successfully.  
  
“Of course you did,” Andrea’s voice is so full of affection that Riccardo wishes he could hug him through the phone line, “Wanna meet up later? This shouldn’t take more than a couple hours at most.”  
  
Riccardo wants to take the offer, but he has been neglecting his friends far too much lately, and he already promised Antonio that he would be at the party, “Sorry, I think I need to make sure Claudio doesn’t poison anyone with his spiked punch.”  
  
Andrea agrees with a laugh and they end the conversation without saying much more, but the comfortable feel of it all makes Riccardo feel immensely better.  
  
  
  
Riccardo doubts Antonio’s parents knew what they were signing up for when they agreed to leave the house in their son’s use for the night. Given, they did it only after Riccardo, Alberto and Giampaolo swore to help Antonio to clean up the place afterwards, but still – not the greatest idea.  
  
The party has barely begun but the house is already brimming with people: most of them probably invited by Claudio, who is in his element, shuffling around the house, mingling with people and introducing them to each other.  
  
Riccardo has never been much of a partygoer, definitely not like Claudio or Antonio. He has always preferred the ‘old man’ approach – sitting down with a drink and actually  _talking_  to people.  
  
At least Giampaolo is there with him. He does not act any differently from before, and Riccardo does not dare to bring up the earlier incident in fear of being overheard by their classmates.   
  
He snuggles up to Giampaolo’s side in their shared armchair to let him know his gratefulness, anyways. Giampaolo pinches his arm in response.  
  
Of course, Claudio has to appear just at that moment to deliver one of his inappropriate jokes about the nature of their relationship. The irony of it is actually kind of funny, since it was Claudio who gave Antonio  _gay porn_  as a gift.  
  
“I’ll go get us something to drink,” Riccardo mumbles as he gets up, trying his best to hide his amusement as Giampaolo begins recounting their adventure at the sex shop in a loud voice to everyone in earshot.  
  
He gets sidetracked after that, running into people he actually knows. A short conversation turns into two and then three and before he knows it, it has been more than an hour since he left Giampaolo with Claudio.  
  
The punch – the one he swore not to try – is starting to create a pleasant buzz in his head, and he is giggling uncontrollably at something Antonio just said. He is not quite sure when his friend joined the conversation, but it does not matter at the moment.  
  
He finds himself on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room, not really knowing how to move to the futuristic music playing from the stereos but making the best of it nonetheless.   
  
The people around him do not look that familiar anymore, and he is shaken out of his little happy place when a pretty girl with shoulder length blonde curls tries to approach him in the middle of a fast-paced song that sounds vaguely familiar even in his intoxicated state.  
  
He tries to sidestep her suavely, but all of a sudden his legs are way too long and he stumbles in his steps dangerously only to be caught by much more steady hands.  
  
“Okay Cinderella, that’s quite enough for now, don’t you think?”  
  
Riccardo clings to Giampaolo’s arm as he starts to manoeuvre them away from the living room, sparing not another glance at the poor girl left behind.  
  
“I want Andrea,” he whispers to Giampaolo as they make their way to the considerably emptier hallway, giggling when his friend pets his hair and tells him  _of course you do_  like it was the most natural thing in the world.  
  
(And it of course is.)  
  
“And he wants me,” Riccardo continues, following Giampaolo to the closest bathroom without complaint, “It’s crazy and stupid and so so so amazing!”  
  
“I know, I’m not blind,” Giampaolo deadpans and sits Riccardo down in front of the toilet seat, “Now wait there, you’re gonna feel really sick any second now and I’m  _not_  gonna clean it up tomorrow.”  
  
True enough, Riccardo spends the next fifteen minutes throwing up everything he has drunk that night while Giampaolo rubs his back in a comforting gesture.  
  
Fortunately, his head feels somewhat clearer when he finally stops hugging the toilet.  
  
“Shit, the fuck was in that punch?” he asks after washing his face and gulping down a dozen glasses of water, “I’m gonna kill Claudio when I find him.”  
  
They re-emerge from the bathroom just in time to bump into sobbing Roberta, who rushes out of the living room and to the coat rack to get her jacket. She gives them a quick glance but does not say a word, just leaves with banging doors.  
  
It is not hard to guess who the cause for her distress is.  
  
“I’m gonna fucking  _kill_  him,” Riccardo repeats, the alcohol in his system giving him the courage he would not normally possess as he walks into the living room, his eyes scanning the people around the room in search of Claudio.  
  
He pointedly ignores Giampaolo who warns him not to do anything stupid.  
  
It is easy enough to spot Claudio: he is sitting on the couch with his arms wrapped around two girls dressed less than modestly on his both sides. Riccardo vaguely recognizes one of them as the same blonde who tried to approach him earlier.  
  
“Heeeey, Monty! Found you a girl!” Claudio exclaims when he notices Riccardo, pointing at the blonde enthusiastically.  
  
“Charming,” Riccardo replies in the coldest tone he can muster – spending so much time with Andrea has definitely honed his skills – giving an apologetic look to the girl, “A word, Claudio?”  
  
He does not wait for Claudio’s reply, dragging him away from the couch and the girls before his friend has time to actually understand what is happening.  
  
“The fuck are you doing?” Riccardo hisses to him as soon as they enter the hallway, his fingers clenching Claudio’s arm so hard he will probably have bruises in the morning, “Roberta just left in tears and you’re hitting on some girls you barely know!”  
  
“It’s called  _having fun_ , you should try it sometime,” Claudio answers. He is having some difficulty at focusing his eyes at Riccardo’s face, obviously a victim of his own punch as well.  
  
“You find that fun? Cheating on your girlfriend, ruining the mood for everyone else?”  
  
Claudio frowns at him in frustration, “It’s not cheating! I haven’t even done anything with them!”  
  
“Which is why Roberta was so overwhelmingly happy when she left? Fuck Claudio, just use your sorry excuse of a brain for once!” Riccardo is yelling now, the booze edging him on even as the rational part of his brain is telling him to wait until they are both sober.  
  
People have started to gather around them, the curious murmurs flying around the hallway – no one has ever seen Riccardo and Claudio fighting, it is one of those things that just do not happen.  
  
“Just mind your own business, will ya?” Claudio huffs, his eyes practically flaming, “Why are you so concerned about her, anyways? You can have her if you care about her so much.”  
  
“I don’t want  _her_  – it’s  _you_  I care about!” Riccardo clenches his fists at his sides, the urge to hit Claudio growing steadily, “Though I have no idea why I bother. If you just stopped thinking with you dick for a second and started acting like a fucking human being--”  
  
Apparently Claudio’s self-restraint is not nearly as good as Riccardo’s – the fist connects with Riccardo’s jaw so suddenly that he cannot even finish the sentence.  
  
He stumbles back a couple steps and Giampaolo is by his side immediately, while Antonio and Alberto have taken a hold of Claudio who is yelling obscenities at Riccardo, telling him to take his idiotic advice elsewhere; he can take care of himself; he does not need another mom to tell him what to do.  
  
“Fine,” Riccardo says slowly, wiping his aching lip with the back of his hand and coming up with a blood stain, “Fine, go ahead! Ruin your life! See if I care!”  
  
He turns on his heels and rushes out of the house, ignoring Giampaolo’s voice calling after him. Tears are gathering in his eyes and flowing down his cheeks as he runs, runs, runs. He cannot even see properly anymore, and still he keeps going, desperate to get as far away from Claudio as he can.  
  
He is several blocks away by the time he notices he has left his coat and bag at Antonio’s house – along with his wallet and keys. The only things he has on him are his mobile phone and the vial of lubricant still stashed in his pocket.  
  
Giampaolo has tried to call him many times, so have Antonio and Alberto. Not Claudio, though. Of course not.  
  
He dismisses the unanswered calls, dialling the only number he knows by heart.  
  
  
  
By the time Andrea’s car curves to where Riccardo is sitting, he is shivering and his teeth are clattering with cold – his T-shirt not nearly enough to protect him from the crisp late autumn weather.  
  
“Oh God,” Andrea gasps the moment he gets out of the car, “You look terrible!”  
  
He wraps his coat on Riccardo’s shoulders and helps him stand up carefully – the earlier running and too much alcohol have finally taken their toll on him, as he can barely move his legs without falling down.  
  
The car is warm but he still cannot stop shivering, the cold too deep-rooted into his every limb, every muscle. He wraps the coat more tightly around himself, still clutching his phone in his hands, hoping that maybe,  _maybe_  Claudio will call him and everything will be fine again.  
  
“You’re staying with me tonight. No way I’m leaving you anywhere in your state,” Andrea tells him firmly when he tries to suggest that he can go home: surely someone will come let him in even if everyone is sleeping at this hour.  
  
“What about your family?” Riccardo asks uncertainly, not daring to look at Andrea with his bloodshot eyes. At least he is not crying anymore. (The mere thought causes a few more tears to roll down his cheeks.)  
  
“Not there. Don’t worry about that.”  
  
Andrea reaches over the gearstick to run his fingers over Riccardo’s knuckles gently, intertwining their fingers when the boy finally opens his fist under the soft caresses.  
  
The rest of the ride passes in comfortable silence, and Riccardo is almost asleep by the time Andrea parks the car in front of a large house in an expensive-looking neighbourhood.  
  
(Riccardo will later find out it is actually the very same neighbourhood he used to walk through on the way to football practice as a child, dreaming that one day he would be rich enough to live in one of those beautiful houses with swimming pools and wide gardens.)  
  
The house is big, dark and empty, almost like a haunted house – Riccardo has to muffle a giggle at the thought despite not feeling at all like laughing – and the cold atmosphere does not disappear even though Andrea turns on the lights as he leads Riccardo into the living room.  
  
“You’re still freezing,” Andrea notes as he caresses Riccardo’s cold cheeks, careful not to touch his bruised jaw, “Wait here, I’ll go run you a bath.”  
  
“It’s okay. I’m not a child,” Riccardo protests weakly but Andrea merely rolls his eyes, obviously not taking a no for an answer. He then presses a soft kiss on Riccardo’s forehead before making his way to the bathroom.  
  
The living room feels even more ghastly now that he is alone. It is not as well-organized as Riccardo had imagined Andrea’s house would be: there are some magazines splayed on the coffee table, and a box of toys has been turned upside down in one corner, toys scattered around the floor.  
  
One shelf is filled with photo frames: Andrea’s children at different ages; an old couple that might be Andrea’s parents; Andrea with Coach Buffon, much younger than how Riccardo knows them.   
  
A wedding picture.  
  
Suddenly Riccardo is wide awake, his earlier exhaustion all but forgotten as he studies the photo with sick curiosity.  
  
Andrea’s wife is beautiful: she is wearing a brimmed hat over her blonde hair and her smile is bright, open. Andrea is smiling too – a shy but content smile Riccardo has never seen on his face during their time together.  
  
Something akin to jealousy is tugging at his insides, and he turns the picture face down when he hears Andrea’s steps approaching. He has no time to back away from the shelf before the man enters the living room.  
  
“C’mon, we need to get you warm.”   
  
If Andrea notices the overturned frame, he does not comment on it.  
  
Suddenly it all seems like a weird, disproportioned dream. He is in Andrea’s house – the place where Andrea shares his daily life with someone else, a woman Riccardo has never even met.   
  
Andrea is helping him out of his clothes and into the bathtub filled with warm water, nothing sexual in the contact but still so very intimate – it feels extremely wrong and yet not at all.  
  
Who the fuck is Riccardo to scold Claudio for his thoughtless actions when what he is doing is much, much worse?  
  
“What the fuck was I thinking?” he asks half to himself, not quite sure who he is talking about: Claudio or Andrea.  
  
“You were doing what you thought was right,” Andrea replies as he sits down on a bench next to the tub, “It probably  _was_  right. Don’t beat yourself over it.”  
  
He turns Riccardo’s face towards him with gentle fingers on his chin and starts wiping away the dried blood from his lip. He feels around the bruise on his jaw, too, checking the extent of damage.  
  
“Looks worse than it actually is – will probably ache like hell for a couple of days, but it’ll fade in no time,” he finally gives his judgement, “You’ll be back to your ridiculously pretty self soon enough.”  
  
Riccardo actually laughs at the attempted joke – or was it a compliment – grateful for the distraction from his depressing thoughts, “You should’ve seen the other guy.”  
  
“Like you could hurt a fly.”  
  
Andrea kisses him then, soft and long and full of affection, not making any move to pull away even as Riccardo grabs the front of his shirt with both hands, soaking him in the process.   
  
“Don’t scare me like that again, okay? What’d I do if you froze yourself to death?” Andrea whispers against his lips, combing his fingers through the dark strands of hair, dropping a few more kisses on his lips before reluctantly pulling away.  
  
 _You would just keep on living with your family. Right where you belong._  
  
Riccardo suppresses the mean little voice (that sounds suspiciously like Claudio) in his head and lets Andrea help him out of the tub and wrap a big fluffy towel around him.  
  
“Feeling any better?” Andrea inquires, his arms wound protectively around Riccardo’s waist.  
  
Once he receives a hesitant nod in response, Andrea guides Riccardo through the adjoining door into the dimly-lit bedroom and puts him in the bed, ignoring Riccardo’s half-hearted protests – it is the bed where Andrea’s  _wife_  usually sleeps, for fuck’s sake!  
  
Riccardo manages to resist the pull of sleep for some ten minutes more, just until he can feel Andrea’s naked body pressed against his back, his arms enveloping Riccardo in an intimate embrace, his warm breath playing at the nape of his neck.  
  
Riccardo drifts off to sleep just like that: feeling warm, safe and loved.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Riccardo notices when he wakes up is that he is feeling hot. He is not used to sharing his bed with anyone, the added body heat making him feel clammy and uncomfortable.  
  
It cannot have been more than a couple of hours since he fell asleep, because it is still dark outside. The conspicuous lack of hangover suggests that he might still be a bit drunk, as well.  
  
(It feels like the whole bed is swaying when he shifts slightly in Andrea’s embrace. Yes, definitely still drunk.)  
  
He is also painfully hard – completely unsurprising considering he has the sexiest man on Earth pressed flush against his back, blissfully unaware of the reactions he is coaxing out of Riccardo without actually doing anything.  
  
Riccardo thinks he can feel Andrea’s erection pressed against his backside. It comforts him a little to know he is not the only one whose body is reacting to the proximity on its own accord.  
  
Andrea really  _wants_  him. It is a concept he is not quite familiar with even after all this time.  
  
His eyes focus on the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand, and somewhere in his fuzzy brain it registers that he did not put it there. Andrea must have taken it out of his pocket when taking care of his clothes – his jeans and T-shirt are folded carefully on a chair next to the bed.  
  
What did he think about when he found it? Was he surprised? Angry? Disgusted?  
  
Did he leave the bottle in plain view to tell Riccardo he is alright with it, that maybe he finally thinks Riccardo is ready for the final step?  
  
Perhaps Riccardo is finally desirable enough for Andrea.  
  
Riccardo dismisses the last thought, because he knows it is just his own insecurities speaking: Andrea has made it clear over and over again that it has nothing to with him not wanting Riccardo, that he would have Riccardo every way possible if it was just about his wishes.  
  
And yet, Riccardo still worries, because Andrea still keeps refusing him even after all the things they  _have_  done; even though Riccardo has learned not to be quite so pushy (he hopes); even though he has long since got used to having his own fingers inside him in the privacy of his bedroom.  
  
Andrea is still sleeping, but he still adjusts his hold on Riccardo when the boy snuggles back against him for some semblance of reassurance, not paying any attention to the excessive warmth.  
  
His eyes settle on the bottle again as the first rays of morning light start creeping into the room, clearing his mind from the soft buzz of alcohol still lingering there.  
  
The idea is stupid, embarrassing and extremely pushy – a combination he has tried to avoid at all costs with Andrea (and in life in general) – but it might also be the final push that is needed, because Andrea seems so intent on standing for his own unreasonable principles.  
  
Obviously, it might also be the final straw that will lead to Riccardo being kicked out of Andrea’s life for good, but Riccardo likes to think they are closer than that. They have to be.  
  
Hesitantly, he reaches out for the bottle on the nightstand. Andrea’s hold on his waist loosens with some reluctance, but he is still fast asleep when Riccardo turns to face him, his head nestled on the soft pillows, just a safe distance away in order not to wake the older man just yet.  
  
The first finger slips in easily, the proper lubricant helping the process in a way none of his makeshift options ever could. He circles the finger carefully, trying to spread the lube around as far as he can.  
  
He brushes against a particularly sensitive spot and his cock twitches with interest. He instinctively bucks his hips against Andrea for some kind of relief, and the man grunts in his sleep and pulls Riccardo closer to him, but he does not wake up.  
  
Riccardo releases the breath he did not know he was holding.  
  
He is practically trembling with arousal already, and it does not help that his erection is now pressed between their bodies, the contact almost too much to bear. Still, he continues, slipping in another finger alongside the first one.  
  
The slight sting from the stretching disappears as soon as it starts, helped along by the sparks of arousal coursing through his body.  
  
By the time he inserts a third finger, he is fighting to control his breathing, his face pressed in the crook of Andrea’s neck, far too gone to worry about waking him.  
  
In fact, if Andrea does not wake up soon, Riccardo is pretty sure he is going to come just from this, even though three fingers hurt like hell and the pressure on his cock is not quite enough. Just having Andrea there, the feel of his skin under his lips – it is more than adequate.  
  
And it is at that moment that Andrea finally stirs with a confused “Riccardo, wha--?”  
  
Hearing the sleepy, rough voice makes Riccardo whimper aloud, and he presses up closer to Andrea, because he needs the contact, he needs to be touched, and he  _needs_  Andrea inside him.  
  
“Please,” he whispers against Andrea’s skin, just loud enough to be heard.   
  
He does not dare to look at Andrea’s face, afraid of the reaction he might see there, and he feels dirty for putting the man in a situation like this, but he has no words to describe his feelings, wants, needs, so he just repeats: “Please, Andrea?”  
  
“Fuck,” Andrea breathes out, and the earlier sleepiness is all but gone, replaced with something akin to desire. He runs his hand down Riccardo’s back slowly, like taking in every inch on the way, before he reaches his buttocks.  
  
He squeezes one of the cheeks gently and Riccardo has to bite down on his neck to stop himself from moaning out loud.  
  
“Alright, come here,” Andrea tells Riccardo, taking a hold of his wrist to retract the fingers from his ass and guiding him to straddle his hips.  
  
Suddenly Riccardo is not quite so sure what he is supposed to do: Andrea is leaning back on his elbows, looking him straight in the eye, passion burning in his gaze; Riccardo can feel his erection pressed against his buttocks, just one move away from actually being inside him – and he once again feels like the inexperienced kid he really is.  
  
Then Andrea reaches out his hand and pulls Riccardo into a soft, familiar kiss. He nibbles Riccardo’s lips playfully, slips in just a little bit of tongue, runs his fingers through Riccardo’s hair, still tangled from the night before.  
  
“You’re so very beautiful, you know that, right? Hard as hell to resist you,” he whispers against Riccardo’s lips, shifting his hips just a little to rub against his backside, “I don’t wanna hurt you.”  
  
“You won’t,” Riccardo replies, but his voice is trembling and the words do not come out nearly as surely as he was hoping, “I’ll be fine. I trust you.”  
  
The  _I love you_  is left unsaid, but it is obvious in the words nonetheless.  
  
“There’re condoms in the nightstand,” Andrea instructs quietly, his eyes never leaving Riccardo as the younger man reaches out for the drawer and comes up with a foil package that he opens clumsily, the arousal making his fingers feel like they are twice their normal size.  
  
Thankfully Andrea takes a hold of his hand after that and helps him to roll the condom over his cock. Then the older man uncaps the lube again, slicking himself fully before bringing his fingers to Riccardo’s entrance, trailing the hole and slipping in a couple of digits to make sure he really is prepared.  
  
“It’s still gonna hurt,” he warns Riccardo, and once he gets a nod of understanding in reply, he takes a hold of Riccardo’s hips and guides him to hover over his cock, the tip pressed against the entrance, and that feeling alone is enough to make Riccardo shiver in anticipation.  
  
“Just go slow, you can stop any time if it gets too much,” Andrea rubs his thighs comfortingly, and if Riccardo did not know him so well, he might have missed the way his breath hitched at the end of the sentence.  
  
He sinks down slowly, taking Andrea in inch by inch. It hurts – of course it does – but surprisingly the pain is nowhere near the first time he fingered himself. Mostly it just feels weird, unfamiliar, to be filled so completely. It is intense, intimate, and absolutely amazing.  
  
Andrea is biting his lip, his breath shallow and uneven. His hands are gripping Riccardo’s thighs, and he keeps his hips almost impossibly still when he is finally fully inside Riccardo – like he is afraid he might break the young man in his lap with any movement.  
  
He is watching Riccardo with unashamed adoration, his eyes so dark with desire they look almost pitch black. All of a sudden it dawns to Riccardo how much self-control Andrea must have used before this moment, just because he cares about him so much.  
  
 _And now I’m doing this to him._  
  
The thought sends sparks of exhilaration swelling inside Riccardo.  
  
He rocks his hips experimentally, and the movement draws breathy moans from both of them. The pain is all but gone, replaced by a pleasant pressure inside him: they just fit, like two pieces of a puzzle, and it feels so right.  
  
“God, you feel so good,” Andrea gasps as Riccardo finds a slow, uneven rhythm with jerky, shallow movements – never quite rising off Andrea’s cock because he does not want to give up the amazing feeling, “I love you so, so much, Riccardo.”  
  
Even though the words are spoken in the heat of the moment, the pure, deep, unadulterated feelings they are laced with could not come out any clearer. It is the truth, and Riccardo is so close to coming just from hearing the words from Andrea’s lips.  
  
Andrea moves one of his hands to caress Riccardo’s face, pulls him into a messy, hungry kiss, rocking his own hips upwards to meet the movements, and the change of angle causes Riccardo to whine against Andrea’s lips as the friction on that special spot inside him increases.  
  
Riccardo’s movements are getting more frantic, and he is so, so close to coming already. Andrea is tangling his fingers in his hair, tugging at the outgrown strands, whispering heated words into his ears – words that are only meant for this one amazing moment, and Riccardo will not even remember them afterwards.  
  
Finally Andrea reaches down between their bodies and it takes only the briefest of touches on Riccardo aching cock and he is spilling his come on their bellies, sobbing his release into the crook of Andrea’s neck, the strangled “I love you too” barely louder than a whisper.  
  
Andrea bucks up his hips a couple times more before he stills, buried completely inside Riccardo, holding him as close as possible, muffling his own gasps into the young man’s hair as he finds his release, too.  
  
There are no words needed afterwards: Riccardo stays snuggled against Andrea’s chest a few moments more, moving just enough to allow the older man to pull out of him and take off the used condom.  
  
It is bright outside by the time they get up. They share a long shower and a comfortable breakfast, exchanging gentle touches and kisses whenever they get a chance.  
  
The photo frame in the living room is still overturned, but Andrea does not pay it any mind, so Riccardo decides not to worry about it. How  _could_  he worry, when he has the man of his dreams right there with him?  
  
Andrea gives him a ride home afterwards, parking the car a couple of blocks away to avoid prying neighbours and inquiries from Riccardo’s parents. He was supposed to be at Antonio’s house, only a short walk away, so arriving in a car would warrant unwanted questions.  
  
“See you tomorrow, at school,” Riccardo mumbles, suddenly feeling shy, unsure what he is supposed to say after last night, “Thanks, I guess.”  
  
Andrea takes a hold of his shirt – one of Andrea’s, to be exact – and pulls him into a deep, meaningful kiss. No need to thank him, he would do anything for Riccardo.  
  
When they reluctantly break the kiss, they notice they are not quite as alone as they had thought: there is someone standing only a couple meters away from the car on the sidewalk, eyes fixated on the two of them. And it is not just anyone.  
  
“Fuck!” Riccardo bites out as he opens the door and tries to tell Claudio to  _wait, it is not what it looks like_ , but his friend is out of sight before he can even open his mouth.  
  
All that is left behind on the street are Riccardo’s bag and jacket, and Riccardo curses his luck because of course it had to be Claudio instead of Giampaolo who would opt to return his stuff just this once.  
  
  
  
“Mr. Riccardo Montolivo, please come to the headmaster’s office!”  
  
The first classes have not even started and he is already being summoned. There is no doubt in Riccardo’s mind what this is about, even though he had hoped against hope that it would not come to this. That Claudio would have still had some kind of loyalty left towards him.  
  
Riccardo had tried calling Claudio all through Sunday, desperate to get him to talk to him, to explain the situation, to get him understand Riccardo’s point of view.  
  
To talk him out of whatever he was planning to do with his new-found information.  
  
He never got Claudio on the phone, and he had been on the verge of a panic attack when he had called Giampaolo to ask him if he had heard anything from Claudio, and then even Antonio and Alberto, but no one could get a hold of their friend.  
  
He had then called Andrea and cried and cried and cried over the phone until he got too exhausted and fell asleep the phone still pressed to his ear, Andrea’s soft voice soothing him into a fitful slumber.  
  
Apparently for once his worry had been completely called for, Riccardo thinks bitterly as he makes his way to Headmaster Prandelli’s office.  
  
Andrea is already there when Riccardo enters the office. He is sitting opposite of Headmaster Prandelli, looking unconcerned as ever, a complete opposite of Riccardo who is using up all his willpower to unsuccessfully hide how terrified he is to be there.  
  
The teacher reaches out his hand and squeezes Riccardo’s comfortingly when he sits down on the seat next to him, sending a challenging glance to Prandelli when he looks at them disapprovingly.  
  
“Some alarming rumours about the nature of your relationship have come to my knowledge,” Prandelli begins, and from the way he is looking at them he has already received a confirmation that it is, in fact, more than just gossip, “Given your track record with the students, Professor Pirlo, I was sure it was just a way to denigrate you, but after a long chat with the student in question--”  
  
“Mr. Marchisio may be an insufferable imbecile, but he is no liar,” Andrea cuts in, and it occurs to Riccardo for the first time that maybe Andrea really does care about his students, even Claudio, in his own twisted way.  
  
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Prandelli replies, stumbling a bit with his words, obviously not used to being interrupted by his employees (everybody respects him too much to do that), “Which is why I have summoned you here.”  
  
Riccardo stays quiet, not a clue what he is supposed to say – Prandelli knows about them already, so there is no use in denying anything. Lying would also mean it would be their word against Claudio’s, which would cause even more trouble for all of them; a situation Andrea seems to be keen to avoid.  
  
“Obviously, Mr. Montolivo is over the age of consent, so there is no legal actions to be taken. Unless, of course, Mr. Montolivo himself wants to--”  
  
“No!” Riccardo answers more heatedly than intended, horrified that the headmaster would even bring up such a possibility. He blushes bright red when Prandelli fixes him with a look that seems to see straight into his very soul while Andrea runs his fingers up and down his arm gently, a wordless plea to calm down.  
  
“Yes, as I was saying, no legal actions,” the headmaster finally continues, “However, we are a privately run school, heavily supported by the Catholic community here in Turin.”  
  
Riccardo knows where this is going already, and he braces himself for the impact. He wishes he could hold Andrea’s hand, just to calm his raging heartbeat.  
  
“If this comes to the knowledge of the school board, they won’t look at it as calmly as I do. It would become a very public affair, and it would ruin both your reputations along with this school’s,” Prandelli concludes matter-of-factly, “And as I’m responsible for the school, I cannot let that happen.”  
  
“Of course not,” Andrea retorts far too calmly, leaning back on his chair for the effect, “Which is why I will ask you for a permission to resign from this day onwards.”  
  
“What? No! You can’t!” Riccardo is up before his actions register in his brain. Andrea cannot leave, there must be another way.  
  
“Shut up, Riccardo,” Andrea tells him harshly before turning back to Prandelli, “That would solve all your problems, right? It’s me Marchisio wants out: the only reason he hasn’t made this public yet is because he is protecting Montolivo.”  
  
Riccardo is stunned: he is staring at Andrea who is decidedly avoiding his gaze, and then he looks at Prandelli who is actually nodding absent-mindedly, like he is seriously considering the suggestion.  
  
“Riccardo is a good kid: he’ll make the whole school proud when they win the football championship, and his grades are better than anyone else’s in his class,” Andrea continues in a business-like tone, “He’s not going to jeopardize the school’s reputation, so there’s no reason to punish him.”  
  
He wants to protest again: to say it is rubbish and it is unfair if Andrea is forced to resign while Riccardo gets out of the situation without any harm. But Andrea gives him a resolute glance that shuts his mouth again.   
  
Then Prandelli waves him off, obviously satisfied with Andrea’s reasoning.  
  
He runs into Claudio as soon as he walks out of the office. He must have been waiting there all this time, because everyone else is in class, not a soul to be seen in the hallways.  
  
The anger boils inside him so suddenly that he cannot even begin to think about his actions before he flings his fist, the feeling of Claudio’s hard jawbone under his knuckles satisfyingly painful. He has wanted to do that for so many years.  
  
Claudio stumbles back and hits the wall behind him. He looks stunned, a hand rubbing the place where Riccardo hit him, but he shows no intention to strike back.  
  
“You just have to keep ruining my life, don’t you?” Riccardo hisses at him, fighting hard not to cry again, not now, not in front of Claudio who will just make fun of him again.  
  
Claudio opens his mouth a couple of times like trying to find the right words before he can finally come up with an answer: “He’s our  _teacher_ : it’s wrong! What was I supposed to do?”  
  
“You should’ve talked to me!” Riccardo is practically seething now, because Claudio obviously thinks he is stupid, unable to take care of himself, “Hell, you could’ve even talked to Pazzo or Noce or Aqui and all of them would’ve told you to come to me before going to Prandelli!”  
  
“You wouldn’t have listened! Pirlo is a grade A asshole – you really think he cares about you?” Claudio’s eyes are blazing with self-righteousness, because obviously he is always in the right, and no one is allowed to question that.  
  
“That ‘grade A asshole’ just volunteered to resign so I wouldn’t get into trouble,” Riccardo replies softly, dangerously, “He didn’t even try to deny anything because he didn’t want to get  _you_  into trouble, either.”  
  
Claudio is left speechless, the new information too much to assess on the spot.  
  
“To think I ever had feelings for you...” Riccardo mutters, far past caring that he is revealing the secrets he has been keeping for so long, “Stay away from my life from now on, okay?”  
  
He walks away from Claudio and out of the school building, feeling too unsettled to even consider going to any classes today. Maybe the teachers will understand.  
  
Maybe he just does not care anymore.  
  
  
  
The whole school is shimming with rumours the following morning when Giampaolo practically drags him back to school. Apparently Andrea’s resignation is the big news of the day, and some students are even planning to organize an annual celebration because of it.  
  
“I heard he got booted for sexual harassment.”  
  
“No way! Who’s the poor girl?”  
  
“Dunno, probably some clueless underclassman.”  
  
“Apparently his wife’s filing a divorce, too!”  
  
“No wonder. Who’d marry a guy like that in the first place? Run as far as you can, I’d say.”  
  
“But he doesn’t really seem the type, does he? More like asexual if you ask me.”  
  
“It’s always the ones we suspect the least.”  
  
It is all too much, and Riccardo just wants to get up from his seat and leave. Andrea is not there anyways, so how can they still have a homeroom class like nothing has happened?  
  
“Shut up and get into your places!” Coach Buffon tells them as he strides to the desk in front of the class –  _Andrea’s_  desk – and slams his thick file on the table in his best Pirlo impersonation to date.  
  
“Now, as obviously most of you have heard, Professor Pirlo has resigned from his job due to some personal issues that have nothing to do with this school or the lot of you,” Buffon informs them, glancing pointedly in the direction of the earlier rumour mill.  
  
“I’ll be your homeroom teacher for the remainder of the school year, and I certainly hope you’ll keep up the good work you’ve been doing under Professor Pirlo’s guidance.”  
  
He dismisses the class soon after, because it is practically impossible to hold a proper homeroom class when everyone is just waiting for a chance to gossip some more about this newest turn in the Pirlo saga. Riccardo is feeling sick, because this is not what he envisioned when he first became involved with Andrea.  
  
He stays in class after everyone else has left, because he has to talk to Coach Buffon, has to know what is really going on.  
  
“Yes, Mr. Montolivo? Is there a problem?” Buffon is looking at him expectantly, like he knows exactly why he is still here.  
  
“Is he okay? Professor Pirlo, I mean,” Riccardo cannot come up with anything better to ask without revealing everything all at once. He is feeling guilty enough as it is, and if Coach Buffon knew it was because of Riccardo that his best friend had to resign--  
  
“Andrea is fine, Riccardo,” Buffon answers, his tone softening, “I have a feeling he has been preparing for this ever since the two of you started your relationship.”  
  
Riccardo cannot help it: he is staring. “You--you  _knew_? All this time?”  
  
“Neither of you are very good at keeping secrets from your closest friends – thought you’d figured that out with Pazzini already?”  
  
Riccardo suppresses his shock forcefully, because this is not a time to be gaping at his PE teacher. Andrea has not returned his calls after the meeting in Prandelli’s office, and he was not at the house when Riccardo went there the previous evening.  
  
“Where is he? I can’t get a hold of him and I really need to talk to him.”  
  
“I believe he’s on his way to Flero as we speak, to meet his parents. And then he’s gonna move back to Milan, do something for his dad’s company or some shit, I don’t even know,” Buffon sounds unconcerned, but from his demeanour Riccardo can see he is not particularly fond of the idea of Andrea moving away, either.  
  
“And his wife? Are the rumours true?” he cannot help but asking, because it is the one question that has been bothering him all along.  
  
“Andrea and Deborah have been separated for months already; it has absolutely nothing to do with you,” Buffon glances at him sympathetically, “I tried to urge him to tell you, but apparently he thought it’d help him to keep you at arm’s length if this ever happened.”  
  
Riccardo cannot wrap his mind around it: Andrea is not married – no, he is still married, but not living with the woman anymore – and he did not tell Riccardo because he wanted to keep him from falling too deeply in love with him? To keep Riccardo from getting hurt once they inevitably had to break up?  
  
And it was all a useless effort right from the beginning, because how could Riccardo  _not_  love him?  
  
“Why doesn’t he return my calls?” he asks quietly, even though he already knows the answer.  
  
“Part of the deal with Prandelli – the reason behind his departure would be too obvious if the two of you were still keeping contact.”  
  
Riccardo nods, because it is exactly as he had thought. The traitorous tears are stinging his eyes again, and he turns to leave before they have a chance to fall.  
  
“He really does love you, you know that right?” Buffon’s words stop him before he can reach the door, “There was no point in trying to talk him out of pursuing you, because it was inevitable it would happen anyways.”  
  
“I know,” Riccardo whispers, wiping away the silent tears now rolling down his cheeks.  
  
“Just be patient: there’s only half a year until graduation, and then you’re free to do whatever you like. Make him proud.”  
  
Riccardo cannot help but smile just a little at the words, because it is like Buffon is giving them his blessing, even though he should be angry at Riccardo for luring Andrea into this in the first place – maybe he should be angry at the both of them, just because.  
  
He hides in the washroom again, waiting for the tears to stop, washing his face over and over again to get rid of the traces of crying on his face.  
  
“Thought I’d find you here.”  
  
Claudio closes the door behind him, but does not walk further into the room. He looks at Riccardo nervously, switching his weight from one foot to another, clutching his hands at his sides.  
  
Riccardo does not say a word: as far as he is concerned, everything is said and done between them.  
  
“I’ve been a complete and utter moron. Towards you and everyone else,” Claudio begins, and it is obvious how much it pains him to admit these things, “I should’ve asked you about Pirlo before jumping to conclusions, and I should’ve listened to you about Roberta, too.”  
  
Riccardo just keeps staring at him, doing his best to hide all the emotions that are dwelling inside of him.  
  
“Pazzo told me you used to have a crush on me,” Claudio continues, getting visibly more nervous with every word he speaks, “I never knew; it must’ve been hell. I’m a horrible person to deal with even as just friends.  
  
“I just--I’m sorry, okay? What I did was wrong and I don’t blame you even if you never speak to me again, but I just need you to know that I really care about you. You’re one of my best friends, and I need you in my life. Everything seems so meaningless without you.”  
  
The silence that follows stretches, Riccardo’s eyes never leaving Claudio’s. Claudio is biting his lip, like waiting for Riccardo to tell him to go away. It is what Riccardo should do – what he wants to do.  
  
Instead, he closes the distance between them and draws Claudio into a crushing hug, gripping his shoulders far too tightly for it to be comfortable.  
  
“You stupid, stupid idiot, why can’t you just let me be angry with you?” he mumbles against Claudio’s shoulder, letting the tears fall freely this time.  
  
Claudio pets his hair in response, hushes him and whispers meaningless words into his ear; and then all Riccardo’s walls break and he is sobbing uncontrollably, shaking in Claudio’s embrace, clinging to him with all he has, and he has no idea how he is going to cope without Andrea.  
  
Half a year is a long time, and anything can happen during that time.  
  
But then again, it is  _only_  half a year, and he still has his friends – no matter how idiotic or childish they might be.


	7. Epilogue

“Your hair’s grown, Riccardo.”  
  
Riccardo practically jumps out of his skin when he hears the familiar voice from behind him, and spins around so fast he almost loses his footing in the process.  
  
Andrea smiles at him: that crooked, happy, content smile Riccardo thought he would never see again. Not after half a year with no word whatsoever – not even when he graduated with honours from both History and German.  
  
He had thought Andrea had forgotten him; found someone more handsome, more experienced during his time in Milan.  
  
“Did you lose your tongue during the time I was away?” Andrea asks, raising one eyebrow and it is such a familiar gesture Riccardo can feel his insides swelling with suppressed emotions.  
  
It occurs to him only after a few moments of silence that he should probably answer.  
  
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he admits quietly, blushing at the confession even as the words leave his mouth.   
  
Why cannot he be as nonchalant as Andrea? Why cannot he just comment on Andrea’s pressed suit (that looks absolutely stunning on him) or how the short stubble makes him look much younger? Why cannot he act like he is not shocked to see the love of his life in flesh again?  
  
“I’m sorry,” Andrea breathes out, taking half a step closer to Riccardo, “I should’ve called. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me.”  
  
Riccardo wants to kiss him right then and there, not caring that they are in public – it would be worth it, even if it ruined his reputation at this university before he is even officially accepted.  
  
“How’d you find me?” he asks instead, trailing his fingers tentatively on Andrea’s arm, unable to resist the urge to touch altogether.  
  
“Gigi told me your entrance exam would be today. Elementary school teacher, huh?”  
  
Andrea’s hand twitches when Riccardo’s fingers reach his palm, and it is all the permission Riccardo needs to gently intertwine their fingers.  
  
“Best I could come up with. At least I don’t have to worry about choosing just one subject to teach, right?” Riccardo smiles when Andrea squeezes his hand softly, “And I’ll get to move to Milan.”  
  
“You need a place to stay? When you move here, I mean,” Andrea asks almost hesitantly, “I have the kids over every other weekend, but that shouldn’t be a problem – they’ll love you.”  
  
And then Riccardo is past caring about appearances, because Andrea is  _asking him to move in with him_ : he is shamelessly clinging to Andrea, wrinkling his suit, kissing his lips, cheeks, neck, wherever he can reach, whispering “I missed you so much, please never leave me again, I love you so much” into his ear over and over again.  
  
In that one bright moment, it seems like everything in the world is alright, and that all they have been through might actually have been worth it.


End file.
